Revolution
by Raven Silvers
Summary: 1909. The world is under the oppressive rule of King Dante and his feared Kwaden. But when there is oppresion, there will be resistance; and this revolution will be unlike one the world has ever seen before.
1. Prologue

**Revolution   
****Prologue **

_It's not my imagination   
__I've got a gun on my back!   
__Promises you made   
__Never become fact   
__We're gonna get revenge   
__You won't know what hit you   
__We're tired of being screwed   
__Don't tell me about tomorrow   
__Don't tell me what I'll get   
__I can't think have progress when   
__Just around the corner   
__There's a bed of cold pavement   
__Waiting for me   
__Revenge!   
__I'll watch you bleed   
__Revenge!   
__That's all I'll need   
__I won't cry if you die! Die!   
__We're gonna get revenge   
__You won't know what hit you   
__We're tired of being screwed   
__Revenge!   
__REVENGE!!!_

_- "Revenge", Black Flag_

The freezing wind was merciless in tearing across the Mongolian wastelands, causing some of the snowflakes that fell almost every day to lift and drift around, then settle once more on the frozen ground.

Dotted around the area were some huts, part of villages whose inhabitants were gone; the people who had lived here had been forced into labor by the infamous James Moriarty years ago. Now, these villages were totally empty, and not even a dog remained; every thing was gone, mainly because they had moved far away from this site. Even if they had told anyone what had transpired, no one would believe them.

The huts aren't the most important thing of the landscape, though; it is the great heap of black rubble. What is left standing looks that the structure might have been a fort of some kind. What seems to be machinery — albeit, damaged and unusable machinery — is littered around the rubble, and some of the metal has fused with the stone?

Some of the rooms of this fort are still intact; these are decorated with Persian carpets, tapestries, and furniture dating back to fourteenth century.

Some time ago, this large building had been the headquarters and factory of one James Moriarty, the infamous "Napoleon of Crime". Here he had set his plan for an arms race into action; it was here that his advanced weapons were developed and made. The final phase of his plan to make an unstoppable army was to gather the unique abilities of a certain six, but that turned out to be his doom.

What's left of the legacy he hoped to leave behind are these ruins, a requiem of a lost dream.

But, even as the frozen wind tore across the ice, there was movement.

A mere crunch of ice under bare feet, and the sound of naked skin brushing against frozen stone.

There was nobody to see a some blood floating in mid-air, as if suspended by some invisible force. If one listened closer, though, the sounds of someone panting could be heard.

Sanderson Reed cursed the wind, the snow, and the ice. Even as he made his way through the frozen land, past rubble, he shivered. He should've found a coat of some kind before he set off looking for survivors of the blast, that tore M's factory apart.

Up in the tower, where he'd held that damned Yankee hostage, Allan Quatermain had shot him in the head, or so they all thought. In reality, Reed had just been playing dead while nursing a hurt shoulder, while he waited or the opportune moment to strike.

Inwardly he'd rejoiced as his boss, M, managed to escape from the pesky American and old Englishman. But then the American had took up Quatermain's gun, and fired from the window...

When he yelled in triumph, Reed knew it was all over. The dream that M had had...of world destruction, of advanced weaponry the world had never seen before. Of riches that no one had ever thought of before...and of a world where every nation would be at each other's throats.

When the American — "Sawyer", as Skinner had called him — had finally carted out Quatermain's dead body from the frozen remnants of the tower, Reed had followed. As the Nautilus, large and beautiful in the snowy light, pulled away, Reed had begun his search.

He was careful to miss shards of glass; it was difficult to differentiate the ice from the glass, and he had nearly stepped on a few pieces of the stuff.

Reed was near a very large mound of stone. It had once been a turret of the fortress, but now it was unrecognizable. Reed was passing by it...when the unthinkable happened.

A hand shot out from a gap in the ruins. It groped around, trying to get a hold on something so the owner could pull himself out. Reed was quick in running up to the hand and grabbing it. Bracing his feet against the frozen stone, Reed pulled with all his might.

It wasn't long until the owner of the hand came out from the wreckage of the chimney he had been buried under. Reed nearly fell over as Dante finally came loose.

"Dante!" Reed said, "You're alive!"

M's right-hand man was half-dressed; he only had his pants on, and even they were tattered at the edges. There were scratches all over exposed parts of his body, and Reed noticed the nasty cuts that Dante had gotten on his left hand. They were deep, and his fist was all bloody.

"Yes, I'm alive," Dante said, hoarsely. "Reed? Is that you?"

"It's me, yes," Reed said. He could hardly believe Dante had survived the explosion that had brought down this part of the fortress. "I took the serum the scientist's made."

"So did I," Dante groaned, pushing himself to sit up straight. "Where's James?"

Reed paused. So Dante didn't know that their mentor had died...he didn't expect the other man to take it well.

Dante and James Moriarty had grown up together. It was believed that Dante's parents were German, although Dante had lived in England most of his life. Reed had only known Dante for about two years, but from what he knew Dante and M had been very close, both as friends and as colleagues. M had been the one to come up with the idea of advanced weaponry, using the money from his pre-"death" criminal activities to fund the research and to hire the armies that kidnapped the scientists.

If M was the brains of the operation, then Dante was the field commander. The two worked very well; there was a chemistry between them that spoke of a close friendship, even though M was always the unspoken leader.

"Where's James?" Dante repeated, watching the unmoving snowy outline of Reed.

"Dante, James...he was shot," Reed said carefully, picking his words with care, "By that American boy."

Dante didn't move, nor did he speak; but Reed could sense the change in his mood and demeanor immediately. "Do you know where his body is?" Dante asked quietly. Reed nodded sadly.   
  
Standing up, he offered Dante — who had been sitting on the stone — a hand. Dante accepted it, and pulled himself up.

A few moments later they found themselves standing in front of M's body. The criminal genius was lying on his belly, his mask some ways in front of him. Reed was still standing, but Dante fell to his knees as the horrible truth had finally sunk in. Reed had seen the body earlier on, and had paid his last respects to the man who had dreamed the impossible, before going to look for survivors.

There was silence between Dante and Reed. Reed felt for his friend; Dante was trying to cope with the loss of a man he considered his brother.

All was still as Reed let Dante mourn. The now-invisible man looked down at the snow, contemplating the cycle of generations...soon, a new breed of geniuses like M would rise up and bring the war that M had dreamt of.

"They will pay."

The whisper floated through the wind, which almost snatched it away before Reed could hear it. Nonetheless, Reed _did _hear it, and he looked up at his friend.

"They will pay..." Dante repeated, "They will all pay."

"The seven of them?" Reed asked quietly. Dante stood up, looking down at their mentor.

"No..." he whispered, "The whole world will pay."


	2. Chapter 1

A/N: Ah, a new chapter; I know it's been some time since I'm updated, and I am so sorry! I've been really, really busy, an' the Muses decided they needed a break. But they're back. Which is good.

**Disclaimer: **I do not claim to own "The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen", its characters, technology, and/or anything related to it. The "League of Extraordinary Gentlemen" belongs to 20th Century Fox, © 2003. I also do not claim to own any character that appears in this story and/or any technology related to them. These belong to their respective owners.

**_IMPORTANT, PLEASE READ:_** Some notable characters from classic literature make an appearance in this story, and before you go about correcting me about the dates each of the stories were set in, let me tell you this: the way I date is similar to that of Alan Moore's. I use the date of publication, which is either a little before and/or after 1899 and 1909. Because of this, some plot elements of the original novels might be changed to fit. Also, I have tried to keep their appearances as true to the books as possible; but, please understand, sometimes this is not possible. 

**Sethoz****: **I've made you scared? Already? Oh, drat. I was hoping that would come later. ;)  
**  
Clez: **Eep! -grabs a fan and fans you like crazy- Someone, get Tom Sawyer in here! He's the only one who can wake her up!

* * *

**Revolution  
****Chapter 1**

"We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars."  
_- Oscar Wilde_

Dante did get his revenge, and he did well; less than three months after Mongolia, while the world was still celebrating the new century, he made his move. The war he waged was brutal, due in part to the machines that M had come up with and also the fearsome Huns from Mongolia that Dante and Reed commanded.

The world hadn't seen such a determined and daring man as Dante in the years since the French Revolution. He was daring, and with Reed, his ever-faithful advisor and best friend, they brought the world to its knees. Pacts and alliances were made, then broken; battles were fought, and lost.

And so it was, that by the end of that fateful year, the whole world bowed to him. At the beginning of 1901, he had already set up the new capital of the empire he named the Second Reich in London, Buckingham Palace as his headquarters. There was no one who dared stop him, because since every single member even remotely related to the Royal Family had been assassinated, most people believed the world to be lost.

The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, whose tour of the world was interrupted by the outbreak of war, had spread out across the globe: Nemo had rushed back to India to defend his land against the invading forces; Mina, Skinner, and Dr. Jekyll had been safely returned to London amidst terrible bombings; and Tom Sawyer had joined the American Army to ward off the threat of the new empire whose reach had spread more quickly than Alexander the Great before him.

Now, nearly ten years later, the world was Dante's. He had installed himself as King, and Reed, his Prime Minister. Reed was also the Captain of the fearful Kwaden, an elite group of fearsome guards that terrorized the poor.

Dante, the commander-in-chief of all the forces in the world, let his rule be oppressive; concerned with making money, he let some of the world's once-great countries fall into ruin.

The Kwaden and various enforcement organizations around the world had to deal with the Underground, the resistance movement that had cells all around the world. The Underground members were the unspoken heroes of the people, much like how Robin Hood was centuries before.

The leader of the Underground was a mysterious character; rumors and shadows surrounded him. No one save the Underground members knew who he was, and then it was only a few who knew him by name.   
  
It was a universal fact that this man – most of the people weren't even sure if it was a man – was a genius. Some called him a pioneer for freedom, but the government had put a very high bounty on his head. The price for his capture went up every three months but still he remained at large.

Because of this, the Kwaden raided the Old Quarter — the area where the poor people (and, effectively, most of London) lived — frequently, hoping to catch the mysterious Underground leader. It only added to the people's woes, since most of them were struggling to pay the heavy taxes imposed on them. Many turned to the very active black market to get their foodstuffs and various necessities.

But still, children and young women alike idolized the Underground's mysterious leader, who they had dubbed the "Black Duke". How that nickname had surfaced was unknown, but after every daring escapade by the Underground, the half-whispered name would be heard all around the Old Quarter. Even the rich, young women of families high up the social ladder dreamt of the Black Duke finding them and taking them away to Utopia.

Every hero has an enemy, and this was no exception; besides Dante, was Sanderson Reed himself, Prime Minister and commander of the Kwaden.

The invisibility serum that he had taken years ago had stayed strong, and Reed got around that by having made a special skin-like material made for him. He put it on his face, and it did nothing to ease the fear the people felt; the mask was a pasty shade of beige, a lousy attempt to make it look like real skin.

* * *

The grim reality of the people living in the Old Quarter was readily apparent in the raids that the Kwaden would make on three or four houses a week; families were evicted, some even sentenced to death.

This week was no different; another crowd had gathered in front of another home.

This time, it was the likable Jackson family that was being evicted from their home. Jackson senior ran a dry goods store a few blocks down from his humble little home, and everybody knew the two children. Marie was a kind and gentle woman, often seen either chasing the children inside or helping her husband out.

The Jacksons were now standing on the street in front of their small house. The two kids clung onto their mother's dress, while Marie was being held by her husband. He stared in disbelief as Reed and the Kwaden looted their home for anything that would pay for their taxes.

Sanderson Reed stood to the side of the scene, his second-in-command next to him. His second-in-command was a mysterious man known only as Chauvelin (#1).

He was a Frenchman from a well-to-do family, lizard-like in appearance. He was young, perhaps in his late twenties or maybe early thirties. Keen dark eyes peered out from a set of deep, sunken eye-holes. He was, undeniably, extremely clever and shrewd, which made him the perfect protégée of Reed's.

Dante, apparently, approved of Chauvelin. Rumors that circulated the marketplaces and between storekeepers said that Chauvelin had been brought from France to England, just so Reed could train him in the ways of the Kwaden.

At any rate, the people knew that Chauvelin was a Reed-in-training; they had no doubt he would be as cruel and cold as his predecessor.

The Jackson children were crying; the older girl, five, was watching her house as it was ransacked, and her sister, barely three years old, sobbed into the skirt of her mother's dress. Jackson senior had a look of disbelief on his face, because along with his house, the Kwaden had seized his shop as well.

The crowd that had gathered to watch did nothing to help the family for fear of reprisal. Amongst the people was a dark-clad figure, hidden in an ebony cloak that covered their face.

Their face was bowed, as if trying to hide their identity; such people were not an uncommon sight in London, or in any part of the world where the rich and powerful did not dwell.

The people took no notice of this person, but it was clear that they were taking a very special interest in the scene that was unfolding.

As the leader of the Kwaden came out of the building, men close behind, Reed ordered the house to be razed. Marie gave a strangled cry, and her younger daughter cried even harder.

Their lives went up in a burst of flame as the torches were thrown onto the ramshackle house. The fires seemed to be the very flames of hell, eating up the homes of the people. The crowd began to disperse, leaving the poor Jackson family to their own devices. Members of the Kwaden regrouped, and marched out of the Old Quarter.

As the people left, so did the dark figure.

Their step was quick and brisk; soon after separating from the main crowd, they turned into an alleyway, taking the backstreets of London instead of the main roads. They kept on walking, for close to half an hour, all the time not taking off their cloak. Occasionally they would cast a glance over their shoulder, checking to see if anyone was following them. No one was, and the figure continued their journey.

Finally, after traveling across the Old Quarter, they stopped near a manhole. Looking around to make sure no one would see, they reached down and pulled off the cover. Quickly disappearing down the ladder, the only evidence that anyone had been there was the echo of the replaced sewer cover.

Down into the darkness the figure went; there were no lights whatsoever, and the sun couldn't filter through the drains, clogged with leaves from the previous night's rain. The figure made their way down with a sure and steady step, as if whoever it was had scaled this ladder and others like it many times before.

_Click, click, click_; the sound of their footsteps kept on going in the darkness, and, strangely enough, the sound of puddles splashing was absent. The dripping off the water from the walls echoed loudly in the vast tunnel, and the footsteps even more so.

Gradually, though, light seemed to come from nowhere. In front of the walking figure, a spot of light had appeared. The figure went on walking, almost at a run. Soon, the spot of light began to grow bigger, and eventually, became obvious that more than one small light source was present somewhere.

Rounding the corner from where all the light was coming from, the figure passed through a huge cavern filled with people. Most of them were eating from dirty plates and bowls, and many glanced up to see who this new person was. The figure ignored the looks, intent on making it through this cavern and into the adjoining one.

Ten years ago, the British government had embarked on a project to build a new sewage system of the city. Then the war had broken out, and the project was abandoned halfway through, leaving behind a huge network of unfilled caverns.

These had become the safe houses of the Underground, and, eventually, one of them was turned into its headquarters.

The figure made their way through the many dirty men, women, and children, all crowded into the cavern. Torches lit the room up with a brilliant orange glow, and the fires beneath the pots of what smelled like stew only added to the brightness. Most of the people there had been charged with high treason to the state, and the Underground provided shelter for them.

The black-clad person entered the next cavern, where there was more activity. This cavern was a little larger than the first, and also as brightly-lit, but there was where the similarity ended. Tents lined the sides of the square room, each made of scrap canvas to provide their occupants with a little privacy.

This was the headquarters of the Underground; here was where all the raids and attacks were planned. The men in this room recognized the dark figure, and many saluted the Black Duke as he passed. He nodded in return, still intent on getting to the largest tent there.

It was the meeting room, twice the size of the other "rooms". There was a large table inside the meeting room, and it could seat twenty people, if they squeezed.

At the foot of the table, where the chairman of the meeting would sit, there hung a flag.

It was the Underground's only flag, and it was almost sacred to the people.

It had a rendition of a phoenix on a dark gray background. The phoenix was the symbol of the people; one day, the Underground believed that the people of the world would rise from the ashes of an oppressive empire and be reborn, much like a phoenix would.

It was the only one of its kind that existed, believed to have been created by an Armand St. Just (#2) sometime after the war. Unfortunately, St. Just died just after handing it to then-leader of the Underground.

The Black Duke pushed through the heavy material that made the door, and the only other occupant of the room looked up from the map he was consulting.

"Greetings," the man said, "I was beginning to think you had been captured by Dante's men."

The Black Duke threw his hood off his head.

* * *

(#1) Chauvelin was the ruthless French agent created by the Baroness Emmuska Orczy in her masterpiece, "The Scarlet Pimpernel", published in 1913.

(#2) Armand St. Just is also a character from "The Scarlet Pimpernel", brother to Marguerite Blankeney (nee St. Just).

Just so you know, "Kwaden" is the Dutch word for "evils". For a picture of the flag, please visit my site, The Shelf. 


	3. Chapter 2

For those of you who are inquiring, yes, LXG 2: Apocalypse _is _on hiatus.

**Crystal Nox: **Please, do tell who you think it is…Don't keep me in suspense!  
  
**BloodMoonLycan****: **You, too. Tell me who you think it is! And don't cheat. –Shifty look-

**TARilus****: **That, my intrepid reviewer, shall all be explained the text that follows.

* * *

****

**Revolution  
****Chapter 2**

"If you are going through hell, keep going."  
_- Sir Winston Churchill_

Tom Sawyer's blue eyes blazed with anger, and the other man's mood sobered instantly.

"Damon," Tom said, taking off his cloak and leaving it carelessly hung over the seat of one chair, "Reed's done it again."

Damon Archer sighed. "Who was it this time?"

"The Jacksons," Tom answered. "They razed the house."  
Damon sighed again, picking up one of the folders that were left scattered on the tabletop. Opening it, he looked at the papers inside. "Arsène's team is on patrol now," he said, closing the folder, "They'll take good care of the Jacksons, so you don't need to worry. Arsène and his people are amongst the best in the recovery patrol."

Tom nodded. He knew that…he trusted Lupin (#1), the witty thief of London's streets and close ally of the Underground.

The recovery patrol was responsible for helping evicted families like the Jacksons find places to stay in, so they could get back on their feet again. They were an inaugural part of the Underground's efforts to help the people tide the times over, until there was freedom and justice in the world again.

Which, at the rate of things, would be soon.

"How are our arrangements for the meeting?" Tom asked, leaving his cloak draped over the back of a nearby chair and coming to stand beside Damon.  
The younger man pointed at the map that took up most of the table. "We got the last confirmations while you were out. Greenland and Asia arrive in London next week, along with the rest."

Tom nodded. Damon was more than capable for his role as the Black Duke's assistant. "What about the others? Have you been able to track them down?"

Damon looked thoughtful, and turned to his friend and leader. "I still have doubts over whether they will help us, Tom. Ten years can change a lot of things, especially people's mindsets."

Tom sighed. They had had this discussion before, many times. "Trust me on this." He put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "They'll help us."

Damon still looked skeptical. "I don't know, Tom. A lot of things can change in ten years, especially people."

All the Underground's leader could offer him was a pat on the back.

* * *

Dante leaned back in his chair, taking a break from the hectic duties of being king of the world. It was raining outside, as usual. London never had been a very sunny place, but it seemed a little rainier and colder after the Great War. 

Dante could hear the men and guards pattering about outside the grand chamber that was his study. It was his second study, really; there was his private one, the one located next to his chambers, and this one, adjacent to the meeting hall, where daily business was conducted.

The king of the world was a busy man; everyday, he had all sorts of little matters to attend to. They were the kind that weren't very big, but still needed his attention.

Dante rubbed his temples, thinking of the tedious chores that he would have to go through later. Reed was due back within the hour, after his weekly raids of Old quarter. Dante wondered what Reed would bring back this time…a precious family heirloom, perhaps.

The study was covered in them. The heirlooms weren't Dante's; they had been taken from the homes of families that had been evicted in the past ten years.

On the desk, there was a paperweight from Germany, the homeland of his mother; a gold cup, said to be part of King Solomon's treasures, and a small silver lion that Dante used to smash fingers with. The last victim of the "knuckle-breaker lion", as it had become known as, was an unfortunate messenger sent by Dante's men in France.

Ten years of sheer power all over the world hadn't changed Dante much; he was still the same determined man, not stupid, but in fact a brilliant military strategist. Many had thought him to be a mere lackey during M's reign of supremacy in Europe's crime world, but Dante had helped Moriarty plan the moves and work out the logistics. He was much smarter than he looked.

Dante was thinking about the ball he had to attend tonight when there was a sudden drop in movement outside. Dante could hear it. He looked up just as a familiar knock came at the door.

"Come in," Dante ordered. Reed was early today. As his Prime Minister entered the room, the Treasurer behind him, clipboard in hand, Dante didn't move.

"My lord," the Treasurer said, giving a low bow, "What the Kwaden seized from the homes of the three families is not even enough to pay for the taxes one of them owe the state."

Dante sighed, and made an airy gesture for the Treasurer to leave. Giving another low bow, his nose nearly touching the marble floor, the wizened old man left. There was silence between the two as the large door closed with an ominous _bang_.

"So," Dante started, "Did you manage to get any of those Underground cretins?"

Reed shook his head. "We do have information, though…we believe they're planning something on a large scale." At this, Dante sat up a little straighter. He had seen this coming years ago, and now…now it seemed that he was right.

"What are you talking about?" Dante asked, resting his elbows on the table.

"Our spies in the Underground tell us that there is going to be a meeting of some sort next week," Reed said. "We are not sure when, or where…but we do know that the leaders of the Underground will be in London by next week."

Dante stood up. The Underground resistance movement was the one threat to his absolute power. Giving a small sigh, he headed for the door, Reed coming to walk next to him. The two left the study, and down the corridor towards the meeting hall.

"Our contact," Reed continued, "Says that whatever they're planning shall take place within a timeframe of three months."

"Did they manage to find out who the Black Duke is?" Dante asked, as they walked past bowing lieutenants.

Reed shook his head, and his plastic-like "skin" flapped oddly. It was a disgusting thing, the "skin", but greasepaint had proved too troublesome; it smudged too often. "He's not held in full trust by members of the Underground yet; remember, Dante, he just joined their ranks."

Reed was the only one who could call Dante by his name and not get executed; it was no secret that Reed had been instrumental in Dante's hostile takeover of the world.

"Reed," Dante frowned, pausing at the door of the meeting hall, "You know we have to get rid of this Black Duke. Without him —"

"— the Underground will collapse," Reed finished. "I know. We are trying our best…but this damned Duke is elusive."

"Try harder," Dante ordered. "I want him dead." Reed inclined his head slightly to show he understood. "Good. I'll see you at the Congress meeting next week."

"Yes, sir," Reed said, and then, as if as an afterthought, "Noah Caine is going to be there."

"The man the people voted for?"

"That's him. They say he's going to present another proposition for more rights for the common people, and Zalma von der Pahlen (#2) is going to be there to support him."

Dante gave an inward groan. The two most active (and stubborn) members of the Congress were Zalma, a beautiful young woman with a fiery disposition and a lot of determination, and Noah Caine, a young man from Edinbrough. Zalma and Caine were the only two Congress members the people had voted for. After seeing how stubborn and cunning these two were, Dante had stopped letting the people elect members of Congress. It was too much a risk to his power. "Another proposition?"

"I'm afraid so," Reed answered. "Apparently, this time they are really going to push for it to get approved."

Dante made a noise that signaled his indignation. "I am King. Nothing by them will get approved."

Reed inclined his head again. "You are King," he echoed. "Long live the Second Reich!" He clenched his fist and rested it against his chest, where his heart was.

"Hail!" Dante responded, doing likewise, as was required. With a nod, he disappeared into the meeting room, while Reed continued on his way.

* * *

That night, Tom sat in his apartment, looking over documents that were related to the Underground's work. They were written in code, and although they looked harmless enough, they contained all the details of what would be happening next week. 

_This is what Sam had been working for, _Tom thought, taking a break from his work and looking out the window, _This__ is what he worked five years for. _

The American stood up and walked over to the window. It was open, but Tom didn't mind the chilly air that came in. He put his hands in his pockets, a habit that he hadn't really kicked. He sighed, and thought of all that had happened in the past ten years.

After the League, he'd gone back to America, joining the Voluntary Army Corps to help fight off Dante and his invasion. He hadn't seen the members of that…that escapade after that, but he did know Mina, Jekyll and Skinner had returned to London, and Nemo to India, all for the same purpose — to fend of Dante and his relentless attack on the free world.

The only reason they had split up was because they hadn't really made friends with each other, after Allan's death. The tour around the world had been meant to accomplish that end, but they didn't get the chance to finish it; Dante had made his declaration of war just after the New Year with a strike in Amiens, bringing France under their control within two months.

Dante and Reed had proved a formidable pair, bringing nations to their knees and countries to tremble. Reed, for a diplomat, had been a remarkable field commander…and Dante had proved to be a deadly strategist.  
The world had fallen, within a space of a year, and Dante set up his capital in London, as if a slap in the face to the League members, who they had never found.

After that, Tom had left America. Aunt Polly had been killed when she was caught in a crossfire; Amy Lawrence had been a field nurse, where she had been shot; Becky Thatcher had gone MIA while doing counter-intelligence. Most of his childhood friends had been killed in the initial battles, while others were executed for various crimes against the state. The town of St. Petersburg was a much smaller and quieter place now.

Tom sighed, saddened. The Secret Service had become part of the Kwaden after Dante's takeover.  
When he had come to London, Tom had gotten to know the man who lived next door; his name was Samuel Masters. Sam had been a middle-aged man who had been everywhere and seen everything, much like Allan Quatermain ten years before. Sam had worked as a bookkeeper for one of the larger companies in London.

Tom had treated Sam like his father, or perhaps like Allan. The two had forged a strong bond when Sam introduced him to the Underground.

True, Tom had heard of the Underground's resistance efforts before, but he had never met a member of the vast organization before. His surprise had only been made greater by the fact that Sam was the Underground's leader.

_"I see potential in you, Tom," _Sam had said, _"I can see you leading the Underground one day." _

He'd declined, of course; he didn't want anything to do with politics or resistance. Life had gone on. Of course, he'd never told anyone. Two years later, a tip-off from an insider led to Sam's arrest and then execution.

Tom had been there. He'd heard the screams of the children as they saw their beloved Uncle Sam get shot. He'd seen the tears. He'd seen the horrified looks. After that, he swore justice.

1904 was the year Tom Sawyer took over as leader of the Underground. Few had questioned him; almost everyone knew that Sam had trusted him with his life, although there was some dissent.

In the five years since then, the Underground had spread from Europe to the world. Tom had closed negotiations Sam had started and opened new ties with other countries.

He glanced at the papers on the table. There were all the arrangements for the meeting next week. The Underground's top ten would assemble in London to determine the course of action, a plan that, after almost nine years, would finally come into fruition.

_The time has come_, he thought. _It's time to take action. _

* * *

(#1) Arsène Lupin is the star of a series of short stories by Maurice Leblanc. Lupin, a thief and a master of disguise, made his first appearance in "The Arrest of Arsène Lupin" (1905).

(#2) Zalma von der Pahlen was created by British writer T. Mullett Ellis in _Zalma _(1895). Zalma is an illegitimate Russian-Spanish princess, who later in life, turns into a revolutionary. In the events of the novel she plans to send anthrax-filled balloons into the capitals of Europe.

On a side note, Revolution now has its own site. Please visit my homepage for a link.


	4. Chapter 3

Argh, I know, it's been a long time since I've updated. It's just that my Muse was kidnapped halfway through this chapter, see, and I had to rescue it.

**TARilus: **Yes, the Black Duke _is _Tom Sawyer. And as for big, bad and ugly (alias the Dante-beast)…you'll just have to see, eh? ;)

**funyun: **My dear, you have just given me a _wonderful _idea…-evil grin-

* * *

****

Revolution  
**Chapter 3__**

"It is a denial of justice not to stretch out a helping hand to the fallen; that is the common right of humanity."  
_- Seneca (5 BC - 65 AD)_

__

The day's light was waning as the dark figure moved through the back alleys of London. Tom Sawyer was heading towards the more questionable districts just outside London, on the edge of Old Quarter.

His black cloak swept the ground, scattering rubbish and dead leaves. He had pulled the hood up as soon as he'd left his apartment, and he bowed his head a little…no one would be able to see his face.

He didn't like the fact that he had to come here in the first place, but it was necessary. This area was the home of London's knaves and assassins, and he was seeking one of the latter.

The infamous Milady de Winter was a renowned figure in her trade, one that all the rich and powerful feared… with good reason. She was the best in the business, and was well-known and feared. None of her victims ever lived to tell the tale, although everyone had seen — or at least heard of — how deadly she was.

At the start of the Second Reich's reign on the world, men and women with political aspirations decided that the only way to get to their goal was to get rid of the people currently in that particular post. As such, dozens of assassins and mercenaries popped up all over the country, but most of them had settled down here, just outside Whitechapel.

Milady was one of the most expensive and high in demand; her reputation preceded her all around the world. Her secret to success was her vampirism and a comprehensive knowledge of poisons and chemicals. It was also a less-known fact that Milady got her name from one of France's best books.

Tom stopped in front of an imposing building that looked more suited to be a government office than the headquarters of some of London's worst characters. The American felt the comforting weight of his Colts around his waist — years ago he had opted for a waist belt; they were easier to conceal — and knew that if Milady tried to attack him, he at least stood a chance…not that he expected her to, but it was better to be safe than sorry, after all.

Ascending the steps to the second floor, Tom kept his guard up. The atmosphere around the area didn't do any comforting, and rats scuttled across the ground, narrowly missing his boots. The former Secret Agent briefly wondered how Milady managed to live here.

He came to the top of the stairwell, and turned right. The bartender who had directed him here had told him to take a right turn, and look for No. 44. Tom was quick in finding it. He knocked, and a female voice allowed him entry.

He stepped into the dark room cautiously, allowing the door to close behind him. His senses were straining to sense any movement or sound, however faint. There was some sort of light source somewhere, but it was dim and the back of the room was shrouded in shadows. He could just make out the form at the back.

"Milady de Winter?" Tom called warily. Even though he got no response, he knew she was in the room. "I need your services to...get rid of someone."

"You have come to the right place," a voice in the darkness said. "Now it remains on how much you're willing to pay." She didn't question the fact that he was wearing a hood; she probably had her share of clients who preferred to stay anonymous. Milady stood up and stepped out into the light.

When Tom saw her face, he pulled down his hood and the elusive assassin gasped as Tom spoke.

"Hello, Mina."

* * *

Reed was growing impatient. 

He had been waiting for his contact in the Underground for nearly half an hour already, and Reed was a man who valued punctuality very much. If any of his Kwaden were late for anything, they'd get severely punished, but Reed's informant was too precious a resource to lose.

The ground was wet; the sky had emptied itself with a vengeance earlier on, and puddles covered the streets. The rain had cleared the smog from the air, and everything felt a little fresher.

The Second Reich's Prime Minister heard the puddles and turned. He saw his contact hurrying towards him, head held low, hands in pockets.

"Well?" Reed asked as the man came up to him. He had waited for a long time now, and he wasn't in a very good mood; obviously, his contact sensed this and was quick in speaking.

"I am a busy man, Jacobs...I assume you called me down here to tell me something of at least _some _importance," Reed said, malice glinting in his eyes, not that anyone could see.

"Yessir, I did," the scruffy man said, looking around him nervously, "It's been gettin' 'arder to find what you need, see... I'm 'fraid I'm gonna have t' raise the price of my...ah...services to y'all."

Reed gave an annoyed sigh. Trust Jacobs to ask for more money. "Once the Underground is eliminated," he said, speaking as if to a five-year-old, "Then you shall be paid the sum which we agreed on." He placed ample emphasis on his last five words.

Jacobs spluttered, but Reed's glare silenced him.

"So...?" Reed asked.

"The meetin' I told you 'bout last time we met," Jacobs continued, still glancing about him, "Yesterday they confirmed that all o' 'em are comin'."

"Do you have their names?" Reed asked, his interest piqued.

Jacobs shook his head. "They're keepin' their names all nice an' cozy in their heads, I'm 'fraid. Black Duke's people're keepin' their hands full, that they are...security's been stepped up ev'rywhere, 'specially 'round the Duke 'imself. His second-in-command — they call 'im the Baron de Greene — he's also been busy, aye, that he is."

Reed allowed himself an inward sigh. Jacobs wasn't able to provide him with anything of much importance this time round. "Alright," Reed said, pulling out notes out of his pocket and handing them to Jacobs, whose eyes lit up with the light of a man who enjoyed money. "That will be all. You know how to contact me if you have any more information."  
Jacobs nodded eagerly. Casting another glance around the area, he took his leave.

* * *

Tom didn't know why Mina had taken to this particular trade, but he was in no position to ask. Many had been driven to crime to make a living after Dante had taken over the world. 

"Agent Sawyer?" Mina asked, her face showing her disbelief. "I thought...you went back..."

"I'm alive," Tom said, giving her a small, boyish smile, "And I'm here, standing in front of you."

"How did you find me?" she asked quietly. "I've done everything to keep my name a secret, even feigned my own death years ago. No one thinks Mina Harker is alive."

"No one _thinks_, Mrs. Harker," Tom said, "But some people _know. _After all," Tom added with a cheeky grin, "I am the Black Duke."

Mina's green eyes widened even more; she couldn't believe the young, brass Agent she had met ten years ago had become the leader of a massive organization that had cells all around the world. "The Black Duke...? But, how? I assumed you had died in the battle at Wounded Knee Creek a decade ago."

Tom shook his head. True, he _had _been at that battle, but he had merely been injured badly, not killed. The long scar on his left forearm bore witness to that. The names of those who had died were never fully discovered; eight out of ten people were hurt and disfigured so badly by Dante's weapons of mass destruction that no-one could identify them. "I'm still alive and kicking, Mrs. Harker," he said. "And I've come to ask for your help."

Mina raised one elegant brow, and Tom continued. "The Underground has been around since Dante took over, and we've tried our best to get rid of Dante and his cronies all this while. Our older leader had a plan, and it was so close to being implemented when he was persecuted and killed." A dark shadow passed through Tom's countenance at the mention of Sam's death. "It's time for us to finish this place once and for all...and I'd like your help."

"What is this 'plan' of yours?" Mina asked, keen eyes regarding him in a new light. Determination filled his posture; discipline in his voice. This wasn't the old Tom Sawyer she had known; this was the Black Duke, leader of the Underground.

Tom shook his head, blond locks flying into his face. "I can't tell you now...not here. Next Monday, go to the Quong Lee's (#1) tea shop in Limehouse at noon. Someone will meet you there and bring you to the Underground, where we'll talk." His eyes told Mina that he hoped that she would come.

"I will be there," she told him. Satisfied, Tom nodded, and left.

* * *

Damon looked over the list of names on the table. There were eight names in total on the paper, and he studied them carefully. Beside each name was a letter, denoting the country from which each of the Underground's viceroys came from. 

The names on the paper were aliases. A select few knew the real names of the Underground's viceroys. This was so spies would not be able to identify them, and it also inspired the people. The titles were: Countess Roseate; Blue Earl; Marquis Carmine; Duque Black; Comte Heliotrope; Vicomte de Cerulean; Lord Bisque; Lord Teal; himself, the Baron de Greene; and Tom, the Black Duke. Each of the Top Ten were named after a color, making it easy should Tom ever need to identify anyone.

Next week they would all assemble in London for a meeting that would decide the fate of the Underground and, effectively, the world in general. While Dante mixed around with the fat pigs of aristocracy — both of which the people hated; Dante, for making their lives hard, and the rich, for enjoying themselves in sheer luxury while they tolled day and night just to make a living — there would be a rising. A rising of angry and discontented people who wanted their old lives back.

The meeting would determine if the people were ready for the fight. If they were, then the time and date would be discussed. Damon knew that Tom had been working hard for this. Since Tom had taken over from Sam, the Underground had blossomed all over the world, merging with other resistance groups and starting new ones.

At the thought of Sam, Damon felt a little saddened. He had known the old man for a while, and he had been like an uncle to Damon and others. His arrest and death had been a hard blow to the movement, and they had been on the verge of collapse when Tom came. Of course, there had been skeptics; after all, Tom was young and inexperienced in the way of guerilla warfare.

But Damon reckoned Tom had done a better job than perhaps Sam would have been able to. He had established cells all over the world, and there was a chain of command in place just in case he was arrested and tried, too. _God forbid that, _Damon shuddered. _Not so close to judgment day. _

Damon sighed, and decided he needed a break. Arrangements for the meeting were tedious, to say the least, and difficult. He stood up and pulled his coat off the chair, where it had been draped on. Gathering up the documents on the table, he kept them in the manila folder they had come in. He tucked the folder under his arm after pulling his worn coat on; he would work at the café where he and Tom liked to frequent.

He made his way through the vast caverns that criss-crossed main London and finally emerged, ten minutes later, from a manhole near the café.

The seaside café was located near the docks, close to the string of bars that dotted the wharfs. One could see the street children gathering under lampposts at night or at the doors of the bars in the day.

Damon sat himself on a table in the corner. After ordering a coffee, he began to mind his own business, looking through seemingly harmless shipping manifests. Like Sam Masters before him, Damon was a bookkeeper of another large shipping company under the government.

As he took his coffee and went through the manifests, he was vaguely aware of the other patrons of the café, and the low drone of conversation that went on in the background. He was engrossed in his work, and started when he felt a tugging on his pant leg.  
Damon looked down. "Hello, Owen."

The familiar boy from the streets grinned up at him. " 'ello, Mr. Archer." Owen had the beginnings of a cockney accent in his voice, despite his young age. Nobody was quite sure how old Owen was, although he seemed to be about twelve. He'd lived on the streets all his life, and Damon had befriended the talkative little boy who lived with the other street kids in the wharfs.

"What're you doing around here?" Damon asked as Owen scrambled up the other chair.

"I came to look for you," Owen said, pulling his stained beret off his head to reveal a head of dirty blond hair. "Need to tell ye something."

"Oh?" Damon asked, his interest aroused. He leaned across the table, towards Owen. "What is it?"

"D'you remember last week, Mr. Archer?" Owen asked. "You mentioned in passing that you were looking for information on the King."

Damon nodded, and Owen went on. "Now, see, bein' the good guy that I am, I went to look 'im up for you." The boy dug around in his grimy coat and produced a folded sheath of papers. "This is what I've got." He pushed the papers towards Damon. "Haven't read it, myself; can't read, after all."

Damon skimmed through the papers. He could see that what was contained within them was a detailed history of Dante. "Where did you get all these?"

"I know a few people around," Owen said simply. "They know people who know people who know things."

Damon arched a brow, and Owen just shrugged. The boy didn't move from his seat...clearly, he expected some kind of reward.

"Alright," Damon sighed, "Get yourself a slice of cake. My treat."

Owen grinned and hopped off the chair to see the selection of cakes in the front.

* * *

(#1) Quong Lee was created by Thomas Burke and appeared in _The Song Book of Quong Lee of Limehouse_ (1920). A bit late than the usual publishing dates, but he's the best choice I had. 


	5. Chapter 4

**Revolution  
Chapter 4**

"Life without liberty is like a body without spirit."  
_-Kahlil Gibran  
_

A fine mist was settling down on this part of London, enveloping the city in a curtain of white as the ship pulled into the London harbor, its passengers alighting and heading towards their respective destinations. Amongst them was a young Chinese woman, probably another immigrant from some backward province of China. Few paid her a second glance, dismissing her presence as unimportant, and while cab drivers rushed to help disembarking passengers with their luggage, they left her alone.

_Ah, London, _she thought, raising one elegant brow, _Not exactly welcoming of one of her daughters. _She had spent her childhood, right through her teens in London with her father; more specifically, in Limehouse, before moving back to China.

As she walked through the streets, she saw that shops were closing for the night, and workers were heading home. She also saw every manner of laborer passing her by: miners, who worked just outside the city; seamen, returning from a journey to some far-off land; storekeepers, smelling of everything from oily grease, fish, and everything in-between.

In ordinary circumstances they had absolutely nothing in common. Still, she could see the same longing in their eyes and faces: they wanted to be free, to return to their old lives, when trying to earn their daily bread wasn't so hard.

The woman sighed inwardly. She knew the fight ahead would not be easy at all, but they had to try. Their lives had been taken from them by force, and she – along with others who shared the same vision – fully intended that the citizens of the world would take it back.

She would give it back to them, she promised herself, as she headed towards her hotel.

She fingered the pendant of a crow at her neck, marking her as the first of several mysterious arrivals in the capital of the Second Reich.

* * *

The Carfax asylum (#1) was big, dark, and foreboding. Tom's footsteps echoed loudly through the hallways, his shadow lengthening and shortening randomly in the shadows. It was almost eight, and night had already fallen on London.

Tom wasn't worried about missing the man he was looking for, because he literally lived in the asylum. The American tried to ignore the cries of madness and anguish coming from the padded cells and rooms around the side corridor, and was largely successful in that endeavor, although he couldn't help but feel a little unsettled.

The person at the front had directed him to the room where he would be able to find the person in question, and so he made his way through the winding corridors that smelled of disinfectant, accompanied only by his wits and the disturbing cries of the mad.

The orderlies he had passed earlier had barely spared him a glance. After making sure he wasn't a patient who had gotten loose they had ignored him, on the whole, and that suited him just fine. After all, in today's world, going unnoticed had its perks.

He had dropped by his place before coming to Carfax to get into one of his many disguises. Tom felt ridiculous in the handlebar moustache, makeup, round hat and the clothes. He wasn't used to it at all...it felt so stifling, so formal. A few of the Underground's members were theatre actors, and so imparted their knowledge of stage makeup and disguise to other members of the Underground, Tom one of them.

Tom's transformation from the young American to the pot-bellied English businessman was astounding. His skin color had been altered using a fair amount of rouge. A pillow was strapped to his waist, and Tom realized that if he fell forward, it would break the impact and he wouldn't be hurt. The handlebar moustache would cause mush pain when he pulled it off later, and it would take a pretty amount of scrubbing to fully get rid of all the makeup. While not Sherlock Holmes or Arsène Lupin when it came to disguises, Tom was pretty good.

Judging by the numbers on the whitewashed doors he passed, Tom guessed he was close to his destination. The yelling and screaming from the earlier rooms were almost non-existent in this part of the asylum, although there was the occasional whimper. _The patients here are probably the more sane ones, _Tom mused. He wasn't surprised if any of them were perfectly sane, but were in here anyway because they had been deemed "mentally unstable" by the government...which usually meant Reed or Dante.

Acutely aware that he was almost there, Tom paused in his musings as he rounded a corner. Down the corridor, he could see someone at one of the doors. It seemed that they were locking the door, while bidding good-night to its occupant, assuring him that he would be able to leave soon.

"Doctor," Tom called, quickening his pace.

The man who had been locking the door turned to look at the new arrival, and Tom could easily recognize the pale face, ginger hair, and lines of exhaustion. _He still has his pocketwatch with him,_ he thought with slight amusement, catching a glimpse of the chain hanging out of Jekyll's pocket.

"Yes?" Obviously, Dr. Henry Jekyll had not been able to recognize Tom in the dim light, not that Tom could blame him. "How can I help you?"

"I," Tom repeated, finally coming close enough for the gentle doctor to distinguish his features. "am looking for a Dr. Henry Jekyll and a Mr. Edward Hyde."

Jekyll's wide saucer eyes widened in fear and shock. To assure him he wasn't working for Dante, Tom slipped him a 'calling' card. On it was Tom's real name, instead of the alias he used as the fat businessman.

"Tom Sawyer?" Jekyll virtually whispered.

Tom nodded, a small smile touching his lips. "Good evening, Dr. Jekyll."

* * *

_Damn. _

_Damn, damn, damn, damn, **damn.**_

He was lost. After getting off the ship that had weighed anchor in the harbor almost a quarter of an hour ago, he'd made his way to his hotel, but he had taken a wrong turn or something and ended up on the other side of London.  
He wished the crow pendant he wore around his neck would come alive and guide him through the streets. Sadly, he knew that that would never happen.

No one was around on the streets, and all the stores were closed. Hopelessly lost with absolutely no idea where he was, he wasn't optimistic that he would find his way back.

_Oh, good going, man, _he thought to himself, hauling his bag along while looking out for a hansom or cab, _It__'s your first time in London and you get lost. _

Grumbling to himself about not bringing a map, he tried — unsuccessfully — to push his dark brown locks out of his eyes. He was desperate to get to the inn, where he had arranged for a room. Perhaps, he thought, if he made it to anywhere with humans around, he could ask for directions, even if it meant that he would have to stray into the world of vice.

_Argh, you idiot, _he cursed himself. _Next time, when leaving the country, bring a map.

* * *

_

The doctor's office was neat, if small, and Tom found an odd comfort in that, as if Jekyll's world had not been touched — or, aversely effected — by war and oppressive rule.

The American had explained everything in hushed tones to Jekyll, who nodded and now, looked deep in thought. Tom wondered if he was debating with Edward Hyde in his head. The two men had been in silence for the past few moments.

"Will you come?" Tom prompted gently. Jekyll sighed and sat down on the chair behind the desk; Tom was seated in the one opposite him.

"I'm afraid I can't, Tom," Jekyll said, while taking a sheet of paper and a pencil and writing something down on it, "It's just not in my nature."

By the time he had finished talking, Jekyll had also finished writing. He pushed the paper across the table

to Tom, who read it and nodded. He tried to keep the smile from his face.

They had been speaking in codes all the while, afraid of being overheard. Dante had spies everywhere. The paper, a part of Jekyll's carefulness, had read

I will be there.

Casually, Jekyll lifted the paper and held it to the candle that flickered on the desk, watching as it caught fire and burned to ashes.

Moving on with the masquerade, Tom sighed. "I'll send your sympathies to his mother, then." His blue eyes twinkled as he said that, the only evidence that there was a lie going on.

Jekyll nodded sadly. "I'm sorry I can't make it, but these proceedings are of the greatest importance to me."

"I understand," Tom nodded, standing up. "I understand fully." He waddled towards the door, making a mental note to use a smaller pillow the next time round. "Cheerio then."

"Good bye," Jekyll said, a little half-heartedly, as Tom closed the door behind him.

* * *

The little skipper weighed anchor, and he could feel the swaying of the boat ease up a little. He had been resting in the cabin, but now he got up and headed up towards the top deck. The night breeze was chilly, but refreshing nonetheless.

The wind carried with it the salty tang of the Channel waters. He could see the lights of the small town nearby, and watched as the crew of the skipper quickly moored the small boat to shore. His valise slung over one shoulder, he strode off the bow of the ship and onto the small jetty. He could see the lights of the inn, where he would spend the night before leaving at dawn for London.

The carriage he had already chartered, the driver already booked and paid. At dawn, they would set off on the long journey to London. It would take some time to get there, but he would be able to get there in time for the meeting.

He'd not given the driver his name; no. He would identify himself to the driver by showing him the crow pendant he wore around his neck.

He would be in time for the meeting, he knew, and that was all that mattered.

* * *

(#1) The asylum was created by Bram Stoker in _Dracula _(1897).


	6. Chapter 5

**Revolution  
Chapter 5**

_"Give me liberty, or give me death!"  
- Patrick Henry_

The sun shone down on the wretched city of London, and for once it wasn't raining. There were clouds, but they didn't obstruct the sun's rays.

About an hour's walk outside of London, no one noticed the large, dark shape that descended from the sky like a vengeful angel. Through the clouds it went, heading towards the ground in a steady, if somewhat slow, manner. Soon, it was about five meters off the ground, its massive wings flapping up and down slowly.

A long rope ladder was lowered from the bottom of this great big flying contraption. Shortly after it, a figure shimmied down the rope ladder, valise slung over one shoulder.

As soon as they let go of the ladder, it was hauled back up, and the craft disappeared, leaving only the lone figure to walk to London.

* * *

Tom sat in the Underground's underground cavern, message apparatus on the table. The listening part of the radio was pressed against his ear, and the American twisted a dial right and left. The static he heard began to clear up.

"London to Nautilus," he tested, and was only answered by more static. He turned the dial again. "London to Nautilus."

"_Nautilus to London,_" a voice came back over the line, with some static still. Tom twisted the dial, and it cleared.

"_Nautilus to London. Do you read?"_

"We hear you," Tom said, nodding at Damon, who stood next to him. "Is this Captain Nemo?"

_"Yes, Agent Sawyer. Greetings." _

"Hello, Captain," Tom said. "It's good to hear from you again."

_"As it is from you_," the enigmatic captain's voice came back, _"I trust you contacted me for a reason?" _

"Yeah, I did. I'd like to ask for your help in something."

The Captain's voice sounded impatient. "_Agent Sawyer, I do not have the time to —"_

"Captain, hear me out," Tom cut in. "It involves India's freedom."

_"Go on."___

* * *

The ship landed at Portsmouth, and its passengers filed out of the large ship that had come from Africa. Most of them were merchants or government officials; there was a whole delegation of Dante's men onboard, not that any of them took notice of him.

He separated from the crowd at the docks, knowing that the carriage awaited him at the edge of town. He had set sail from Morocco a month ago, and he found it somewhat comforting to be on English ground once more.

His black cat jumped down from his shoulder and walked beside him. He barely glanced down at his pet, who he knew would follow him everywhere. It meowed, eager to get on.

"Don't worry," he said kindly to it, looking down. "We'll be in London within a week."

It merely meowed in reply.

* * *

_"Rest assured that the Nautilus will reach London in time."_

"Thanks for agreeing, Captain," Tom said, concluding the conversation.

_"You're welcome, Agent Sawyer."_

"It's _ex-_Agent, Captain," Tom said, smiling a little. Trust Nemo to stand on formality.

_"Are you no longer an agent in the Secret Service?" _

"Not since 1901."

A pause. _"I see. Well, I will see you in London within a week." _

"Will do, Captain. London out."

_"Nautilus out." _

"Well?" Damon asked as Tom pulled off the listening apparatus. "Has he agreed?"

"Yes," Tom answered. "So that leaves one more to call on."

"I wonder how you're going to find _that _one," Damon said. "It's not looking good. Our men have been unable to locate any sign of him...We don't even know if he's still alive."

Tom nodded as he listened, running a hand through his messy locks — now no longer blond, because he had put a little saffron in it to dye it a bright orange — in a futile attempt to get them out of his face. "He's alive, I know it."

Damon quirked a brow. "We have no proof."

In response, Tom pulled out a newspaper clipping from his pocket. He handed it to Damon, nodding, "There's our proof."

His brow still raised, the other man read through the article. It was a few weeks old, and he could see it was torn out of The Strand. "It says here the man who broke into the Windermere household was caught and flogged."

Tom shook his head. "You know Wicked Will. He may be good, but he's not good enough to pull off a robbery like that."

He handed back Tom the newspaper clipping. "You think it's our man?"

"I don't think. I know."

Damon's brow disappeared behind his hairline. "Are you going to look for him?"

"Now, actually," Tom said as he stood up. Pulling his coat off from where it had been draped over the back of a chair. "I'm going to ask around, see if anyone's seen him."

"I'll come with you," Damon said, pulling on his coat as well. "Maybe Owen will know where he is."

"Or the other street kids."

"Or the other street kids," Damon nodded, following Tom out of the tent.

* * *

He looked out the window, watching familiar sights pass the carriage as it sped along its way to London. _Ah, sweet England,_ he thought, not without some bitterness. _Home to so much grandeur...and tragedy._

He remembered riding these very roads with his late wife. He missed her dearly, even though it was nearly five years since she had been killed. He wondered what she would say now. Residence in South America had made his skin darker than it had been before they had moved, and he remembered fondly about her problem with the weather there.

The coach was approaching London; he could recognize the buildings, despite it being years since he had returned to England. As they headed towards the great city, they passed through a shanty town. Children, far too skinny for their own good and covered in grime, looked on in curiosity as the coach passed them. Some of them tried running after it, to beg for food or money, but they couldn't keep up.

His heart broke. He and his wife had no children, but he felt deeply for these wretched victims of sheer poverty. _They're so young, _he thought, _but they're so improvised. I wonder how many will die before year's end, _he asked himself sadly.

_All the more reason to help them,_ he mused as he leaned back into his seat. They were entering London now, and slowing down. _All the more reason.___

* * *

As the two friends walked down the street together, having come through a manhole earlier, Damon spotted Owen. "Owen," he called, waving to the young boy.

" 'ello, Mr. Archer, Mr. Caine," Owen nodded. His words came out slightly slurred, because he was chewing something.

"I thought you stopped chewing tobacco," Tom — whom most of the world knew as Noah Caine, people's representative in Congress — said, raising a brow. Owen shook his head and spat, while Damon looked on with disapproval.

"Keeps the hunger away. Cannon Street boys've been sharin' their stash with me," the boy explained. "What can I do for ye?"

"We're looking for someone," Tom told him. "Rodney Skinner. You've heard of him?"

Owen looked shocked. "Heard o' 'im? I used to _live _with the man!"

Tom and Damon exchanged glances, Tom's as if trying to say 'See? We found him!'.

"Where is he, Owen?" Damon asked.

"C'mon, I'll show you," Owen said, gesturing them to follow him as he turned and went down the street.

* * *

It took them about ten minutes to get to the dingy apartment. Dodging rodents of all kinds, puddles — whether or not they were water, they couldn't be sure — and drunks sprawled along the corridors, they came to the small apartment room.

Digging around in his pockets, Owen produced a key and unlocked the door. The first thing that hit the two men behind the boy was the stench. If smells could kill...they would have dropped dead.

Owen didn't seem at all affected. "Rodney, chap! You around?" he called cheerily as he entered the small flat.

Holding a hand up to his nose, Tom followed, while Damon chose to linger outside the door. "Skinner?" He tried to see in the darkness of the flat, but failed.

"Owen?" a voice came, weakly, from the corner of the room. There was the sound of leather scraping against wall. "Owen, lad, that you?"

"Rodney, where're you? I've brought some folks to see ye," Owen answered.

"O'er here," Skinner's voice called. He waved one arm, and Tom could barely make out the black of the coat from the black of the room. "The corner next to the stove."

Owen went over, and Tom helped him haul up the invisible man to his feet. Letting go of him caused him to sway on his feet, and the two had to grab him before he fell.

Damon came in, just to pull out of a chair, then retreated outside again. Tom and Owen literally dropped Skinner on the chair, and stepped back. Tom was worried; when pulling Skinner up, he had felt the track marks on the other man's arm. The thief's breath smelled distinctly of sherry.

_Why did I expect this? _Tom thought, despairing a little despite his optimistic nature. _He steals jewels from one of the richest families in all of London and blows the money on drink and...is that opium? _He asked himself, noticing the small sachets filled with white powder on the table.

"Chap, you alright?" Owen asked. Skinner shook his head, and mumbled something about his 'medicine'.

_This **cannot **be a good sign, _Tom thought, exchanging another glance with Owen.

* * *

A little shorter than usual, this chapter, but it'll suffice, I think. Please note that any updates may not be coming soon, as exams are approaching and my 'net time has be considerably shortened.


	7. Chapter 6

**Revolution  
Chapter 6**

"The people who oppose your ideas are inevitably those who represent the established order that your ideas will upset."  
_-Anthony D'Angelo**  
**_

Tom ran a hand through his shaggy orange-blond locks, making a sound of frustration. Damon leaned against the supporting pole of the hospital tent, where Skinner was being treated.  
  
The two men had left Owen with some money and directions to a candy store earlier than afternoon. Skinner had been hauled and dragged all the way to the Underground headquarters, where there were doctors who could treat Skinner. They had been waiting for almost an hour now.

Soon enough one of the Underground's few doctors emerged. Tom looked at him expectantly.

"He has a mild addiction to opium," the doctor said, "Nothing a few days of rest won't cure. From the looks of it, he's been in withdrawal for some time now. He's probably trying to kick the habit himself."

Damon's brow vanished behind his hairline. "Are you sure?"

"Why don't you come in an' ask for yourself?" a defiant Cockney-accented voice came in from behind the canvas. Obviously, Skinner had been listening to them. "I'm perfectly capable of answering questions, thank you very much!"

Tom tried not to smile. _As alert as always, _he thought. He found some comfort in knowing that the thief's way of living hadn't changed very much in the past decade.  
  
"Good afternoon, Skinner," Tom called cheerily.  
  
There was a pause. Then, a disbelieving "Tom...?"

The American mouthed his question to the doctor, who nodded his assent that Tom could go in and talk to Skinner. Striding into the tent, Tom grinned.

"You're a sight for sore eyes, Skinner," he said, intending the pun to strike home. As usual, it did.

"Very funny," Skinner replied, and he saw the sheets as they shifted. The thief was sitting up as the other man pulled up a chair to the cot and sat on it the wrong way round. The two regarded each other for a few minutes, silently appraising the other.

It was Tom who spoke first. "You haven't changed much in ten years."

"Not that you can see it," the thief retorted. "What's all this business I hear about the Black Duke?"

The younger man tensed at this; did Skinner know? Had someone told him? No, it was unlikely; after all, only a select few knew who the Black Duke was. "I was going to talk to you about that."

* * *

"You're the _what?!"_

Damon raised a brow when he heard the Cockney accent echoed through the cavern. Heads peered out of their canvas tents, trying to locate the source of the noise. Of course, he knew where it came from; only Rodney Skinner could speak like that.

It didn't take long for him to come out, blubbering, just like Damon knew he would. He raised a brow as Skinner came out, because the invisible man dragged a feeble excuse of a blanket with him. It had caught on his leg, and he shook it, trying to get it free, while moving away from Tom.

"Skinner, look —"

"I know what you want, my answer is no —"

"Listen to me —"

"I washed my hands of matters like this years ago —"

"Hear me out —"

"I like my head on my shoulders, thank you very much —"

By now, people from the adjacent cavern were crowding at the entrance to the main cave, curious as to what the commotion was all about. There were many young children among the crowd, and they peered from dirty and thin face in awe as the sheet moved about on its own accord.

"Skinner!" Tom grabbed the thief by the shoulders, stopping his progress across the cavern. Damon paused, unsure of whether to intervene. _Apparently, there's no need for that, _Damon thought, watching with interest. "Skinner, stop and listen to me!"

Startled into silence, Skinner didn't fight as Tom dragged him back into the tent.

* * *

"_Skinner!" _Tom hissed, back inside. "Can't you just listen to me?" When the other man didn't say anything more, he continued. "You want to know why I do this?" He let go of Skinner's shoulders and pointed to the tent flap, where the crowd was still gathered. "It's for them! You saw the children. You saw them, how miserable they are." Then, quietly, "I do this for them, and for the hundreds...thousands all around the world."

Skinner had kept quiet through his, and sighed. He knew what it was to be a street kid, leaving on scraps of food and money from other people's pockets. He knew what it was to have a hard life. "Alright. I'll hear you out, but it doesn't mean I'll agree to anything."

Tom nodded, satisfied. At least he could talk to Skinner now. "There's going to be a meeting in a couple of days. The rest of the League is attending —"

"The _League?" _Skinner's jaw dropped, if Tom could have seen it. "The _League? _But they — we — were disbanded years ago! Half of us are dead!"  
The younger man gave him a boyish grin. "Are you so sure?"

He quietened. "Go on."

"I want you to be there," Tom said. "With the others, to hear me out."

Skinner sighed again. He didn't like this; he knew he was being dragged into something that he didn't want to be dragged into. "When and where?"

* * *

Chauvelin stalked through what had been formerly known as Buckingham Palace. No one questioned him; everyone knew that Reed and Dante favored this young Frenchman, and no sane person wanted to incur the wrath of either.

Chauvelin cared nothing for the status, the wealth, or the fame that being the protégée of the two most powerful men in the world entitled him to. No, he was a simple man, and he liked it that way.

But every simple man has some sort of agenda.

There was no doubt that Chauvelin had one. In these days, it was more unusual for someone to _not _have one. Just what his was, though, remained a mystery even to Reed.

And that was what made him so dangerous.

Reed knew to beware men of Chauvelin's kind. They were especially dangerous, but the young Frenchman had managed to earn the respect and trust of Prime Minister and King, and that suited him just fine.

A silent man, he passed some young clerks, who regarded his presence with ill-disguised suspicion. Chauvelin didn't care, not at all.

_To each_ _his own, _he mused, walking out into the sunshine of the courtyard. _To each his own.

* * *

_

A/N: A little short this time, I know, but I've been insanely busy since the last chapter, so...yeah. Hope you enjoy. 


	8. Chapter 7

**Revolution  
Chapter 7  
**

"The whole earth is in jail and we're plotting this incredible jailbreak."  
_- Wavy Gravy_

In one of the rooms of what was formerly Buckingham Palace — now known as Eroberung Fort — was a room that Dante called his personal study. He worked late here, and today was no exception. What was unusual, though, was the fact that there were two others in the room with him.

Reed looked through records predating the rule of the Second Reich; the occasional floating papers were the only indication he was there at all. To the corner, near the large bookshelf that covered a full wall of the massive room, Chauvelin handed old registers of medical schools of and around London.

The King himself was at the handsome teak desk, going through fairly recent medical journals. 

Dante slammed a hand down on the worn teak desk, causing everything on it to jump three inches into the air, while making a sound of sheer frustration.

Chauvelin's brow raised slightly as he looked up from one of the old, dusty tomes he had been searching for the past few hours. Reed put down the ship manifest he had been holding.

"Damn this League!" Dante exclaimed, face red with anger and irritation. "Damn them to the very depths of hell!"

"Dante, calm down," Reed said coolly. "We'll find them. They couldn't have disappeared completely, even after the war." Chauvelin nodded in agreement, trying to placate his suprieror.

Dante stood up, his palms resting on the tabletop. "We've been searching for a full decade already, Reed," he said, through clenched teeth. "And we _still _haven't found any trace of them!" 

Chauvelin tried to ignore the fact that Dante was turning redder by the minute; in fact, he wasn't sure if it was his imagination or not. Even on good days, Dante was never a man slow to temper. The fact that he held the world in his palm probably contributed to that.

"Why...why is it," Dante asked no one in particular, "That they are so _damned _hard to find, even with assumed names?"

"We've searched every possible medical facility in Europe, both registered and otherwise, and then some," Reed pointed out. "We still have a ways to go before we can be sure they're still around."

Dante glowered at his second-in-command.

"Sirs, if I may speak freely...?" Chauvelin interjected, glancing from one man to the next. Reed nodded, even though he couldn't see it, and Dante did. "Well," he said, replacing the thick volume he held back into the bookcase, "From the sounds of this League, they would be scattered around the world. But, if we take this Dr. Henry Jekyll as an example, it would be reasonable to assume that he would be practicing as some form of medical consultant, in lieu with his training in medicine."

"Yes, Chauvelin, we have already deduced that," Reed said dryly, from his corner of the room.

Chauvelin nodded, as Dante waved the other man to silence. "Yes, sirs, but it would be more than likely that he would be practicing in a government or legal institution. Hiding under our noses, so to speak — where we would least expect to find him. This would also be true for the others, with, perhaps, the exception of the thief."  
  
Reed was nodded, but he couldn't see it. "He has a point, Dante."

"I know he does," the king of the world snapped. "What are you suggesting, Chauvelin?"

"That we go through every single record of every legal or government-run medical facility in Europe."

"That shouldn't be too hard," Reed chipped in, "Considering how few of those there are."

"Good thinking, Chauvelin," Dante nodded. The Frenchman merely inclined his head, and took up another volume from the shelf, going back to his searching.

* * *

Noon was a particularly busy time for the Old Quarter. Men and women alike had an hour off for lunch, and the street was full of people. 

This was especially true in Limehouse, as Mina tried as best she could to blend in with the Chinese and other Asian races that thronged the street. She was looking for Quong Lee's, a fairly popular place among her Chinese counterparts.

She found it soon enough; a sign that said "Quong Lee: Purveyor of Fine Tea" swung from its mounting that was shaped as a Chinese dragon. Below it were Mandarin characters that Mina assumed to be the same, merely in a different language (#1).

She pushed open the door to the shop, surveying the small place with an eye honed for alertness. The old Chinese man, dressed in robes that she had seen other Chinese wearing, turned around from his place at the back of the counter.

He looked at her, and the two examined each other for a few moments before Mina spoke.

"Mr. Quong," she said, "I was told to come here."

Quong Lee nodded. "You come for the Duke."

"Yes. He told me to come here."  
  
Quong Lee did not reply to this; instead, he gestured at a curtain that Mina had assumed led to the upper floors of the establishment. Nodding her thanks, the vampire walked through it and found that it connected with a staircase that led down.

Her eyes quickly adjusting to the dimness of the passage, Mina descended. As she went lower and lower, she was conscious of the faint sound of water lapping against cement.

_So, _she thought, _this leads under the level of the Thames. _

At the foot of the stairs, she was met by a young boy with a stained beret on top of dirty blond locks. The boy held a lantern, and she followed as he led her through the vast maze of tunnels.

It took about a quarter of an hour for them to arrive at their destination. Eventually, Mina spotted a thick door, and the boy knocked on it. 

"Mrs. Harker's 'ere," he said, and the door was pulled open. With a small bow, the boy left her, and Mina entered the headquarters of the Underground.

Within two minutes she found herself in the company of her old League members.

* * *

Skinner had been surprised enough to see Nemo and Jekyll alive, especially the former; it had distracted him from his examination of the flag that was mounted on the wall.

His breath had caught in his throat when Mina had entered. Of course, all hopes of wooing her again had left him years ago, but she was still so beautiful, so graceful...

"Good day, Doctor, Captain, Skinner," she said curtly, nodding to each in turn.

It amused the thief to see that Jekyll stumbled over his greeting. Nemo merely nodded, while he gave a cheery wave.

"Years've been kind to you, eh, Mina?" he said, a little too cheerfully for his own good. He knew she was a vampire, and therefore unable to age physically. She raised a brow.

"I trust they have been the same to you," she replied, as icy as the first time they had met.

"No, not really," he said, looking around. "They haven't been, not to most of the world."  
  
Mina couldn't reply, because Tom swept in just then, followed by Damon.

"It's great to see all of you here," Tom said, smiling, "If you'll take your seats, I can start."

* * *

"Don't be like that."

"Don't be like what?" Tom asked, looking up at the speaker. Damon leaned against the wall below the Underground's flag, had been watching him for the past ten minutes.

"That." Damon pointed at him. "Doesn't take one of Dante's scientists to know how you feel right now."

The American laughed without humor. "I'd use the word 'defeated'."

"Exactly." Damon pushed himself off the wall. "They all may have refused, but we can do without them."

"I thought they'd agree," Tom said, running a hand through his shaggy blond hair. "All those years ago — they'd been dedicated to fighting off M, and then Dante...but now, they don't want a part of this. I don't understand it."

"People change," the other man said gently. "You, of all people, should know that. Ten years ago, did you really think you'd be the leader of a huge international organization?"

"No," Tom admitted, his face back in his hands. "But I thought —"

"You thought wrong, my friend. Don't fret over it. We'll be able to give Dante his just desserts without them. Cheer up. It's not the end of the world."

Tom looked up. "You really think so?" 

A ghost of a smile passed over Damon's features. "Hey, I learned the optimism from you." He was rewarded with a small smile.  
  
"Alright," Tom said, standing up with a renewed vigor, "You're right. It's not the end of the world...yet, anyway. How are our arrangements for the meeting?"

"Grand, my friend, just grand."

* * *

Reed almost ran to Dante's office. He didn't bother to knock, but just barged in.

The other ministers inside turned around, shocked by the intrusion. Dante opened his mouth to speak, but Reed beat him to it.

"I have news of the utmost importance," he announced, a little breathless from his near-run down the corridors of Eroberung Fort. "News that must be relayed to the King immediately."

Dante raised a brow, but waved his other ministers away. "Wait outside."

They complied, and the invisible man — his presence made ghastly by his 'skin' — moved aside to let them pass. When the last of them had left, closing the door behind them:

"What is it?"

"The Black Duke," Reed said breathlessly, flushed with unseen excitement. "I know who and where the Black Duke is!"

"What? How?" Dante leaned forward in his seat.

"My contact informed me; request permission to arrest him immediately."

"Raid the area if you must, Reed! Capture the Black Duke at _whatever cost!"

* * *

_

Tom had barely put his keys down on the table when the door burst open and the Kwaden swarmed in. He was at gunpoint before he could even move.

Reed strode in. "You are under arrest for high treason," the ex-crony of M said triumphantly.

"I have nothing to do with treason," Tom countered. He raised his chin slightly, letting a faint Scottish accent creep into his voice. "I have served the people as I can."

"Lies, Sawyer, lies," Reed said, smirking. "Or, should I say...the Black Duke?"

The horror in having been found out showed in Tom's eyes, even though he tried to hide it. The crowd that had gathered at the door started to murmur amongst themselves. Snatches of "Caine, the Black Duke!" and "To think he was my neighbor...!" could be heard.

"Submit gracefully, Sawyer," Reed sneered. "Otherwise my men willhurt you."

"Like you tried to kill me in Mongolia?" the revolutionary leader spat.

"Nothing of that kind," Reed said. "We want you alive for a fair trial, after all."  
  
_Why do I doubt that? _Tom thought dryly. No one was given a fair trial these days. "Somehow I doubt that." Out of the corner of his eye, he tried to locate his Winchester. He was unarmed now; if he could get to any of his weapons, he stood a chance. A small chance, yes, but a chance nonetheless. _Stupid move, Tom...never go out unarmed. That was what Sam taught you. And what do you do? You go out unarmed! _

He saw the long roll of cloth that hid the rifle. He could make a leap for it, and maybe escape...

"Submit gracefully," Reed said. "I'm giving you a choice."

"Fat chance in hell," Tom said through clenched teeth, before making a dive for the table. The Kwaden opened fire with their deadly automatic rifles, a spray of bullets showering through the floor where he had stood. The crowd outside screamed and fled, away from the danger.

Tom used every ounce of his Secret Service training, dodging the bullets and trying to get the rifle. He flipped the table over, trying to buy himself some time. Reed was yelling 'Don't kill him! We need him alive!' while he struggled to get the roll of cloth off the gun.

They were advancing. The elite of Dante's men had no idea what Tom had with him behind the table, and they were cautious about approaching. _Finally! _It was folly to have wrapped the cloth so tight around the gun — and going out without any weapon whatsoever — he knew now, but when he had hid it his main purpose was for it not to be found.

"Freeze!" Tom said, appearing over the top of the table and aiming the gun at Reed's chest. "Or I shoot!" He could see the Kwaden hesitate; their leader was at risk — would they risk killing him?

"Hold your fire!" Reed ordered, very conscious of the barrel pointed at his chest. "Sawyer, you're outnumbered. Give it up."

Tom hoped to god that the Underground's men had heard the news already — the gunfire must have alerted someone, surely — and were on their way. He had no idea how long he could last.

"No," Tom replied firmly. _C'mon, c'mon, Damon, where are you? _He thought frantically. Arsène was a face he would have been very glad to see right now.

One of the Kwaden made a step forward, and Tom swung the rifle around and pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened.

The gun was empty.

_Oh, sh —_

And that was the last thing that went through Tom Sawyer's head before the butt of someone's gun hit him in the head.

* * *

(#1) I have no idea how the tea shop looks like in Burke's book (Thomas Burke, mentioned in the footnotes to chapter three, created Quong Lee); this description of Quong Lee's tea shop is taken from the first volume of the LXG comics.


	9. Chapter 8

Well. I'm on a roll! Two chapters in two days...not too bad, I think. -beams-

**Alys: **Meep! -hides- I've updated! I've updated! Don't kill me, please! I have a revolution to take care of!

**angel-flame: **Yes, Tom does seem to have terrible luck, doesn't he? Wonder how good he is at poker...-runs off to go find out-

**Clez**: I shall make you a plushie of said informant, and you can practice voodoo on it to your heart's delight.That work with you?

**

* * *

**

**Revolution  
Chapter 8**

"_Friends are some of the greatest assets you'll ever have."  
__- Unknown_

Owen had seen the commotion, and, along with the other boys that made up what was once the Baker Street Irregulars (#1), had gone to look for Damon. 

He had found Damon ten minutes too late. By the time Damon had arrived, running all the way from the other side of the city to the apartment building, Tom, the Kwaden and Reed had long gone.

Stopping in front of the small apartment, out of breath, Damon stared at the mess in front of him.

"Blimey," Owen panted as he caught up with the Underground's second-in-command.

The house was a wreck. The door hung from its hinges, swaying desolately. The cheap furniture that decorated Tom's apartment was riddled with bullet holes, and so was the floor. Stepping into the room, Damon stepped on something. Looking down, he saw that there were dozens of spent bullet shells; in fact, the ground was full of them.

A table was overturned, its contents lying smashed or broken on the floor. Damon carefully stepped inside, watchful of the bullet shells that might cause him to fall. He made his way towards the table. It looked as if Tom had tried to take refuge there.

_A whole lot of refuge it gave him, _Damon thought grimly. Approaching the back of the table, he saw Tom's beloved Winchester lying on the ground in pieces.

"Are you sure it was Noah they took?" Damon asked, bending down to pick up the gun.

"I'd bet my hat on it, Mr. Archer," Owen said, staying at the door. Obviously, he didn't want to touch anything. "Little Jimmy tells me that Mr. Caine was unconscious when they took 'im out."

Damon's worst fears had come true; two days to the most important meeting of the Underground's decade-long history, and their most important figure was captured by the Kwaden, no less.

Damon knew little of Tom's past — the American didn't like to talk about it — but he knew that Tom had once encountered Dante and Reed before, a decade ago. Tom wanted to get rid of Reed especially, and now that Reed had _him, _well...

This did not bode well.

* * *

The first thing that struck Tom Sawyer as he woke up was the throbbing at the back of his skull. 

The second was that he was in a small cell, lying down on a camp bed.

The third was that he was not bound.

He lay there for a while, staring up at the non-descript ceiling, willing the throbbing to go away. It did, a little, but it still hurt.

Sitting up and groaning, Tom touched the back of his head gingerly. His fingers came away with no blood, thank goodness, so that means he hadn't been knocked out _too _hard.

He looked around. The cell wasn't very large, just enough for its sole intended occupant to stand up and pace around a little bit. There was some kind of light source along the corridor which the cell looked out too, but Tom guessed that the light was far away. The corridor was not very bright, but the light in his own cell burned brightly. 

Moving to the bars, he reached out to touch them — before changing his mind. He had seen the inside of Dante's prisons before, and the bars were heated so that anyone who touched them would be burned — and badly.

He looked around the cell, trying to see if there was anything he could use. There, on the bed — there was its metal frame. Since the camp bed wasn't very heavy, Tom pushed it towards the bars, letting the edge of the frame touch them.

Tom decided to leave them there, to test his theory. Meanwhile, he looked around the cell once more. There was a small washbasin and a toilet to the back of the cell, near the bed, and that was about it. 

There was no alternate source of light except the gas bulb that lay overhead. That was large, and the glare it gave off was bright enough for Tom to read, even.

_Three minutes, _something in Tom's head told him. _Three minutes since you put the bed to the bars. _

Moving over to where the bed still touched the bars of his cell, Tom pulled it back, and felt the frame; it was hot enough to cook an egg.

"Thought so," Tom said to himself. It effectively cut off his only route of escape. "Damn."

He sat back down on the bed, trying to think of a way out. Instead, his thoughts drifted off in a different direction.

Reed had mentioned a 'fair trial'. Tom wasn't naïve enough to think it would be fair in anyway; such things did not exist in this day and age. The trial would be a public one — after all, Dante and Reed would want to gloat — and Tom's fate was sealed.

He would consider himself lucky if he got away with a painless death.

Probably by now, men would be building the stage for the Second Reich's most important arrest since Sam Masters. The gallows would be the first to be completed, Tom thought grimly. _It always is. _

Trafalgar Square would be full of people on the day of the trial, all eager to see who the mysterious Black Duke was. Children would crowd around the edges of the gallows, and Owen would be among them, no doubt, along with his little street friends.

Tom sighed. His fate was sealed, and he knew that there was no way out of any of Dante's prisons. _Besides, there'd be guards with automatic rifles which could cut you down in seconds,_ he thought.

* * *

Damon paced furiously in the privacy of the meeting tent where he and Tom had spent so much time planning, carefully planning all the Underground's moves, their attacks, their safehouses. 

A map of London was spread out on the table, along with reports of the various branches of the Underground. Red pins stuck into the map told of their locations. The blue pins, much fewer in number, were where members of the Underground's top ten were staying.

They needed to make a rescue attempt. Tom _had _to be taken out of there, and put in one of the safehouses, so that the revolution could go on.

Damon was all for assembling a task force of the best men he had at his disposal, but Dante's prisons were huge and state-of-the-art. No one had ever broken in (or out) without being killed. 

He paced some more. They needed legends.

They needed a group of extraordinary men.

Something clicked in his head. A solution came; he ran to the table, scribbled a note, and pulled in the first person he could find outside.

"You," he ordered, "Take this, go to this place" — he pointed at the map, indicating the location — "and give it to the captain of the vessel. Give it _only to the captain. _His name is Nemo. Do you understand?" The man nodded. "Good. Now, go! Hurry! The life of the Duke depends on this."

* * *

Nemo frowned. He read the note again. The man who had sent it had hurried off, and this was the third time the Indian captain was reading the note. 

_Only a group of singular individuals can save Tom.__  
- Baron de Greene_

He knew that Tom had been captured by the despicable Kwaden and Reed. He had been among the first to hear the news. He assumed that the Baron was Damon Archer, the man who seemed to be Tom's lieutenant.

Would he do the right thing? Obviously, Damon thought that Nemo and what remained of the League should go and save Tom.

Nemo was all for it, of course. Tom was a friend, despite the years that they had spent apart. He wasn't so sure about the rest of the League, though.  
  
Summoning his men, Nemo sent out messengers to places where the rest of the League members would be found; the Carfax Asylum, Whitechapel, and Old Quarter. After that, he would contact the Baron.

* * *

(#1) The Baker Street Irregulars are of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's creation. They help Sherlock Holmes in gathering information. 


	10. Chapter 9

I love my muse. It's been going hyper lately...not that I'm complaining, mind.

**DiabloCat: **Glad to know you like the story banner, my friend. I like it too. :)  
  
**Alys: **Only if you promise not to hurt/maim/kill me. XD

* * *

**Revolution  
****Chapter 9**

_"It is the duty of the patriot to protect his country from its government."  
__- Thomas Paine_

Skinner stared at the bottom of the tankard he held, thinking.  
  
He'd been adamant about staying out of Tom's plans, but now he wondered if he had done the right thing. After all, a revolution would mean that life for the world in general would be much better. He _did _stand to gain if the Underground won.

_Then again, _he thought, taking another drink from the awful tasting beverage, _If the Second Reich wins, then life for the world won't get any better, will it? It'll only get worse. _And that, he told himself, should justify his actions well enough.

Still his conscience nagged at him. Trying to chase it away, Skinner sought to drown his sorrows in drink when he saw one of Nemo's men enter. 

He groaned. "Oh, here we go again!"

* * *

Jekyll twitched. Nemo's man had just informed him of the meeting that would be taking place onboard the mighty Nautilus within the hour. 

He did not want to be dragged into this.

_After all, Henry, _Hyde's voice echoed through his mind, for the first time since they had left the Underground cavern, _You're a chicken. _

_Shut up, _Jekyll thought back fiercely. Hyde merely cackled.

"Let me get my hat and coat," the gentle doctor nodded. "And I'll join you outside."

* * *

Mina walked through the streets of Whitechapel quickly and briskly. One of Nemo's men walked alongside behind her, leading her to the secret dock where the grand Nautilus had pulled in anchor.

She knew what she had to do. A friend was in trouble.

The people on the streets cast her odd glances, and many regarded the Indian sailor with suspicion and hate. He was dressed in such finery — Mina wondered how they would react if Nemo showed up — and they, in rags. No doubt they would be jealous.

A small smile graced Mina's pristine features.  
  
_After this fight, they will have the opportunity to dress like Nemo and his men.___

* * *

Nemo was pleased. The remaining members of the League were gathered in the stateroom, and he was pleasantly surprised that Skinner had come with few objections. _Also, _he thought wryly, _He looks perfectly sober._

Which was good. Very good.

Damon stood next to Nemo, still in awe of the Nautilus. It had been a risk to come here, but it was a risk he was willing to take. Also with him was a young boy of about twelve years.

Inwardly, Nemo smiled. The boy had had an exchange with the 'Baron' earlier on, in whispered tones.

"Mr. Archer," the boy said quietly to Damon, holding his dirty beret and looking up at the lavish surroundings, "Am I dreamin', are you dreamin', or are we _both _dreamin'?"

Damon had whispered back. "I don't know. Are you dreaming?" The boy had pinched himself, and then shook his head. "Then we're both not dreaming." 

"You mean...all this is _real?"_  
  
Damon had nodded. Nemo was greatly amused. It had been such a long time since he had seen a child so amazed.

"Gentlemen," Nemo addressed the others, "and lady" — he inclined his head slightly at Mina, who nodded her greeting back — "this is Damon Archer, whom we have already met, and Owen" — he gestured at the boy, who grinned, hat still in hand — "They have come to discuss a plan to save Agent Sawyer."

"How'd we know when to get Tom back?" Skinner interjected, before Damon could open his mouth.

"The trial's in two days," the other man replied coolly, nodding as he spread out a map of London on the grand stateroom table. "Knowing Dante and Reed, it will be a public trial. It'll be right here, in Trafalgar Square." He pointed at the location in question on the map. "Now, here's the plan..."

* * *

Tom sat on his little camp bed, thinking about the cycle of generations, when he heard the footsteps.

Standing up quickly, he got as close to the bars as possible without risking burns. He tried in vain to see who it was coming along the corridor.

The footsteps stopped some distance away, and he heard snatches of a conversation.

"...awake?"

"Yes sir. Less than an hour..."

So. It was Dante. _And probably Reed too, _Tom thought. Did they want to gloat?

It didn't take long for the two enemies of the Underground to appear in front of Tom's cell, with Chauvelin tagging along.

"Well, well, well," Dante smirked, "Who do we have here?"

"Thomas Sawyer, formerly of the American Secret Service," Reed said, and even though Tom could not see the expression on his invisible face, he reckoned it was one similar to Dante's — satisfaction. "Also the man who killed the Professor ten years ago." The fire of hate in Dante's eyes seemed to brighten.

"I may have done wrong in my lifetime," Tom spat, "But none of them are as bad as what you've done."

Reed gave a snort. "Still as feisty as ever, Yank. And still as _stupid._" Tom's jaw clenched. "And still a law breaker." The invisible man then added, "One would really think ten years would have changed that."

"I've done nothing wrong," Tom insisted. He was just trying to liberate the people, give them back their lives, that was all.

"Well, Sawyer," Dante said, while Tom eyed Chauvelin, the silent observer. "Your trial will be in two days. You can prove your innocence then..." Here he smirked. "If you can."

Then, with a turn on his heel, Dante left, Reed and Chauvelin following close behind him. Chauvelin's gaze lingered on Tom for a moment, assessing him, before he caught up with Reed.

* * *

Skinner _really _didn't like the sound of this. There were so many risks, not to mention the fact that the Baker Street Irregulars were involved. 

While Damon and Nemo talked over the finer details of the plan, Skinner leaned against the table, watching as Owen wandered about the room, staring at the walls, the table, and even the ground.

He was painfully reminded of the innocence and naïveté of youth. Owen, despite his cursing, thieving and contacts with the underworld, was still a young boy prone to wonders. _Why, _Skinner thought, _If I were twelve, and I saw a ship like this...hell, I'd think I'd died and gone to heaven. _

Jekyll was arguing with Hyde again, from the look of concentration on his face, while Mina listened in to Nemo and Damon, occasionally offering feedback and pointing at the map. As Owen explored, he had a look of sheer wonder and awe on his face that reminded Skinner of happier times.

The boy gently brushed his hands over the surface of the wall as he approached Skinner. "Blimey," he breathed. "Blimey."

"Grand, innit, Owen?" Skinner ventured, a small smile tugging at the edges of his mouth.

"Aye," Owen replied. "I've never seen anythin' like it."

"That's 'cause there's nothing like it, lad," Skinner answered kindly. "Trust me, Owen, if you think this is awesome — wait 'til you see her in action. She can go _underwater." _

Owen's eyes were huge by now. "Underwater? Under the water?"

Skinner nodded with the wisdom of a sage. "Under the water. And you should see her when she's moving then. Fast as lightning, quiet as a baby."

The boy's eyes grew even wider, if such a thing was possible. "Blimey," he breathed again, taking off his hat and running his hand through his hair. Skinner smiled. _Ah, kids. Gotta love 'em. _

He wondered how many would perish in the fight ahead.

* * *

Uh, yeah, short chapter, this one is. It's a filler chapter and my muse left me halfway through so...yeah. 


	11. Chapter 10

Don't look at me like that. I know I've been on an updating spree, but hey, can you blame me? My muse controls my fingers. -wriggles fingers-

* * *

**Revolution**  
**Chapter 10**

"_I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country."  
- Nathan Hale_

Two days had passed without any point of interest, and Tom found himself being led out of the building — blindfolded, of course — and loaded into what felt like a farmer's cart. 

It took about a quarter of an hour to reach Trafalgar Square. Tom could sense and hear the hushed anticipation and faint undercurrent murmuring of the crowd. The blindfold was pulled off, and Tom blinked, his eyes suddenly exposed to the light of the London day.  
  
It wasn't raining, for once, but it was overcast. The sun still managed to shine down on those assembled.

The guards almost pushed him up the wooden steps to the platform, which faced the judge's table. Next to his position, Tom noted with a measure of irony, was the gallows.

His fate was sealed. He would hang.

Tom peered into the crowd, trying to see if he saw anyone he recognized. There, near the gallows, was Arsène. The thief looked glum. A little behind him, Tom spotted Jimmy Grey (#1) and the other boys of Cannon Street (#2) in their grimy coats and hats. Towards the edge of the crowd, Tired Tim, Weary Willy and Ally Sloper stood close together, dirty hats in hand, whispering to each other.

With the nobles, Tom recognized many of them, chiefly Congress members with whom he had sparred verbally with. In the middle of them, Zalma von der Pahlen looked pained. _Probably lamenting the fact that I was caught, _Tom mused. His beautiful ally in fighting for rights for the people was paler than usual, and she looked a little sickly. He had, of course, heard rumors of her being ill, but now she looked worse than usual.

Where was Damon? Tom knew his friend wouldn't give up until the very end. Had he organized some foolhardy plan of rescue? Part of Tom hoped so, but another part rebelled and hoped not.

_Owen's not here, _Tom thought, frowning. _Damon isn't, either._ _Which might mean two things: one, that they've got something planned, or two, they've been captured too. _

His green eyes widened a little. If Damon was captured, then the Underground was doomed for sure...

A hushed silence suddenly fell on the people there. Looking up, Tom saw that Dante, Reed, and their entourage had arrived.

Tom raised his chin, and took in a discreet deep breath. He would face his fate with no fear. The Underground could go on without him, and he sincerely hoped that it would.

* * *

Owen looked around the corner of the alleyway he and the Irregulars were hiding in. From there, they could see the Square and the gallows. 

His heart leapt to see Mr. Caine — no, Tom; Damon had told him his real name —standing there, fate already sealed. Owen thought, _I promise you, we won't let you down._

Tom had done much for the street kids in the area, for Owen especially. The boy was immensely indebted to Tom and he could clearly remember the first winter that Tom had spent in London. It was then that the two became friends.

_We won't let you down, _Owen repeated to himself, watching. Dante was arriving. Soon, the pre-arranged signal would come, and the Irregulars would do their job.

* * *

Dante ascended the steps to his platform with all the regality he could muster. Chauvelin stood with the guards that surrounded the gallows and platforms, ready to command them in case of an emergency. Reed would join Dante as a judge.

The nobles were to the side of the judge's platform, and Dante noted with approval that they seemed to support his persecution of the Black Duke, whose operations hurt their finances.

There was really no need for a trial. Everyone knew that Tom Sawyer was going to die anyway, but Dante had to keep up the illusion of a fair and just system of justice.

He took his seat at the table, and Reed joined him. King and Prime Minister alike nodded to the Chief Justice, who proceeded to read from a piece of paper.

"The accused is Thomas Sawyer, alias Noah Caine, alias the Black Duke, of St. Petersburg, Mississippi, America," the robust man read out, his full voice echoing off the quiet streets of Old Quarter. "He is accused of high treason and destruction of property."

* * *

Tom's brow shot up. Destruction of property? When had he ever done that?  
  
Then the answer hit him. It had been a New York weapons plant that the American branch of the Underground had blown up.

The trial was long, needless, and boring. Tom's defense was half-heartedly doing his job, and the verdict of the trial was already known. 

Finally, it was time for the judge's to state their decision. _Not that we need to know, _Tom reflected.

"The judges find the accused guilty of all charges," the Chief Justice announced. The silence amongst the crowd grew thicker, like fog on a very wet day. "The verdict is death by hanging."

"The accused is allowed one last statement," he continued on, looking at Tom.

He looked at Dante in the eye, saying to him directly, "There will be others like me." He paused. "You can't kill the future."

* * *

The air of defiance was around the American again, but Dante took some comfort in knowing that it would soon be gone, along with his life.

"To the gallows," he ordered, and Tom was roughly grabbed by the hangman.

He didn't bother to struggle. _He's already resigned himself to his fate, _he thought triumphantly. _As well he should. _

Finally, James' death would be avenged. He had waited ten long years for this, and the king of the world fully intended to savor every moment.

* * *

As he was grabbed by the black-clad hangman whose face was hidden by the shroud he wore, Tom stumbled and nearly fell backward. It was then that the hangman chose to lean in and whisper a few, precious words:

"The game is on, Duke."

_Damon! _Damon had been there all along, standing next to him, and Tom had not known! Tom willed himself not to react in anyway that might give away Damon.

Tom was immediately reminded of Mongolia, Allan, and the League. Surely it couldn't be a coincidence that Damon had said the exact words that Allan had a decade ago. Only a few knew what Allan had said that day...

_The League! _Something in Tom's mind yelled at him. _They're here! They're coming! ___

* * *

Owen nodded to himself. It was almost time.

"C'mon, boys," the twelve-year-old said, turning back to face his friends. "Time to get into positions."

The large ragtag group of children nodded, and ran off in their pre-arranged groups of five to their respective locations, their weapons in hand. Nodding to himself again, Owen joined Jimmy Grey and some of the Cannon boys, who had sneaked away.

_We won't let you down, _Owen pledged. _I promise.___

* * *

Tom knew he was safe — after all, Damon wouldn't let him die, would he? — but he couldn't help but feel apprehensive when the noose was slipped around his neck and tightened.  
  
How would they come? When would they come? There was precious little time between tightening the noose and the trapdoor opening.

"Hang him!" Dante ordered, and Tom's eyes widened. The trapdoor gave out from behind him.

* * *

(#1) Jimmy Grey is a reference to "The Iron Fish", a comic strip which began appearing in the British comic _Beano _in 1949. This Jimmy Grey is the child version of two twins who pilot 'Iron Fish' submarines.

(#2) Cannon Street is featured in Justin Richards' ongoing _Invisible Detective _series.


	12. Chapter 11

A point to clear up: in the last chapter, I mentioned Jimmy Grey. Somehow, part of my footnote got chopped up, so that the footnote didn't really make sense. What it means is this: Jimmy Grey is the child version of Prof. Jimmy Grey, father of the two twins who pilot 'Iron Fish' submarines.

**DiabloCat: **Hold on there, my friend. This isn't the last of them you see. ;)

**Alys: **What are you, a telepath or something? Since you've started reviewing I've been on an updating spree! Have you been messing with my mind?! -shifty look- And as for the cookies...yes, I'll have one, please. XD

* * *

**Revolution  
****Chapter 11**

_"Injustice never rules forever."  
__- Seneca_

When the trapdoor opened, hell was let loose in the square.

With a roar of fury, Nemo's men and Hyde poured out from the backstreets, scattering the people. The Kwaden opened fire at the massive monster that advanced on them, and Dr. Jekyll's brutish alter ego only cackled, overjoyed at being let out after a long time.

Reed leapt up from his seat, yelling orders, while Dante's guards hurried him away, out of danger.

Tom struggled, trying to get free; the lack of oxygen was seriously becoming a problem. Black dots were appearing at the edge of his vision — they were getting bigger.

Something whistled through the air, and he hit the ground with an undignified 'omph' as it sliced clean through the rope that held him up by the neck.

He dropped through the trapdoor, taking and hit the ground on his shoulder. He winced, and managed to prop himself up on the other shoulder, catching a glimpse of Arsène.

The gentleman thief winked at him, before disappearing in the fight.

* * *

Damon had been doing battle with a guard on the gallows, but now he hopped down the space left by the trapdoor with a knife in hand. 

"Took you long enough," Tom said, as Damon set to work cutting the rope that bound Tom's hands behind him.

"Very funny," Damon said, now without his shroud. "We had to plan. As you can see, the League got involved."

Tom watched as Hyde threw a few of the men halfway across Trafalgar Square. "Yeah." Nemo was a whirlwind of destructive power elsewhere, and the patter of gunfire was everywhere. "How are we gonna get out of here?" Then, suddenly, "Damon, is that _tomatoes _the Kwaden are getting hit with?"

"That, potatoes, cabbages, and other vegetables, actually," Damon answered with a chuckle. "The Irregulars came up with the idea of distracting Dante's men to make it easier for us to get rid of them." He looked up as the sky as he finished with the last rope. "And in response to your first question, it should be here soon."

Tom sat up, rubbing his wrists, as Damon searched the sky with his eyes. "Stay here," he said, pulling himself up through the opening with the grace of an acrobat. "Don't go anywhere."

He pulled the now-loose noose off his head, glad that he could be rid of it. _As if I can, _Tom thought dryly, looking at the carnage unfolding all around him. More of the Second Reich scum would be coming soon, and probably more Kwaden with them.

* * *

Damon leapt up with agility and grace learnt during his childhood days, kicking one of the Kwaden who had gotten onto the platform. Where were Skinner and the airship? They should've been there by now. 

The signal had been given, the battle waged. It was up to the crew and captain of the airship now to get Tom out of there before he got shot.

Damon could already hear the reinforcements coming. If the airship didn't get there — and fast — the ground troops wouldn't be able to retreat, and Dante would have gotten the most important members of the Underground in one fell swoop.

Of course, he couldn't let that happen.

He put his self-taught fighting skills to good use, hitting someone smack in the face and giving a wicked right hook to another. He had to protect Tom at all costs.

_Get here, _Damon willed. _Quick, quick, we can't hold out for long..._

There it was. A dark shape in the clouds, getting darker and more defined by the second.

_Thank goodness! _He cheered inwardly.

"Tom, come on!" he called. "Our transportation has arrived!"

* * *

Protected by the trapdoor, Tom narrowly missed behind shot in the face as somebody's shot went wild and grazed the edge of the lowered trapdoor. The sounds of fighting came from the platform above him, but for once Tom Sawyer was listening to orders and stayed below. 

"Tom, come on!" Damon's voice came from above. "Our transportation has arrived!"

Tom pulled himself up, and Damon helped him get on his feet again. The two could hear a rather loud swooping sound, as if something large was coming down through the air. A large black shape passed through the clouds, and it didn't take long for the airship to descend quickly on the scene of the battle.  
  
A rope ladder dangled from the bottom of the large and sleek airship, and what looked like a glove floated in midair near it.

"We have one chance," Damon told him. He grabbed the rope that only now Tom was pulling off his head, fashioning a lasso for his own use. "I'll toss you up, and you'll have to grab Skinner's hand and go."

"What about you?" Tom asked.

"I'll see you tomorrow night," the other man nodded. "At the meeting." He laced his fingers together, crouching so that Tom would be able to be boosted up on them. The look on his face told Tom not to argue.

Resigned to that, Tom sighed. "Alright, you win." He took a few steps backward, ready. "Ready?" Damon nodded. He took running steps, jumping up onto Damon's hands.

Damon used all the strength he had in his arms to push the young man up towards the heavens, just as the airship swooped down and Skinner grabbed Tom's hand.

* * *

Skinner had been with the airshipand her crew high up in the heavens, waiting for the signal to come. He didn't like the job he had been assigned to, but he didn't argue; as along as Tom got out of there, he would bear with it.

The swoop down towards the ground was dizzying, and Skinner held onto the rope ladder for dear life. _Just hang on, just hang on..._his mental mantra had been broken as the ground become clear. Shots rang out from every corner of Trafalgar Square, and it struck the thief how ironic the situation was; at Trafalgar Nelson had been fighting to protect Europe from Napoleon, and here in the square named after that epic battle, the Underground were fighting to get rid of the Second Reich.

As they came closer and closer to the ground, Skinner gripped the rope ladder even tighter. As Tom became more than a dot on the ground, Skinner prepared to grab Tom.

"Bloody American," he muttered to himself, if only for comfort, "Always getting himself into trouble..."

Ten seconds more, and Tom would jump up. Skinner would have to catch him, no matter how terrified he was. He tried not to look at his feet, knowing that a) there was nothing there and b) there were only a few rungs below that. If he lost his grip, he was as good as gone.

He gulped down his fear. Moving at dizzying speeds, while being suspended from a rope ladder that swayed, was _not _something he wanted to go through again.

They passed above the two men of the Underground, and Tom leapt up, boosted by Damon.

Skinner grabbed his hand as they swooped by, nearly falling off the ladder in the process.

"Hold on!" he yelled over the roar of the wind. As the airship zoomed off, as fast as possible but yet not putting the two on the rope ladder at too much risk, Skinner held onto Tom for dear life.

* * *

Damon stared at the sky as the airship and its precious cargo zoomed off.

"Godspeed, man," he whispered.

Then, picking up the lasso from where he had left it on the ground, he entered the fray with a war cry, determined to lead them into victory.

* * *

Wheee. Another one. XD I kid you not. My muse is hyper on caffeine and sugar, so this is the result. Not the best escape attempt I've written, true, but it's the best you get at five in the morning. I had to wait a little bit to post this up, since I wanted to see what the response was to the previous chapter. 


	13. Chapter 12

This ones come a little later, because school has started again. But fret not — come Friday, I'll have _allll_ the time in the world. :)

**Alys: **I swear, I'm hiding from you, cookies or not. You know exactly what I'm thinking!

**queerquail: **Well, yes, it does. In German, 'eroberung' means 'conquest'.

* * *

**Revolution  
****Chapter 12 **

_"Freedom suppressed and again regained bites with keener fangs than freedom never endangered."  
__- Cicero _

Skinner had never been so glad to be on solid ground as he was now. In fact, he wanted to roll around in the mud in sheer glee.

As it was, though, he had to be content with lying on his back on the ground of one of the Underground's safehouses. Tom sat nearby, watching him as he stared up at the warehouse ceiling.

"It feels good to be back on land," Skinner announced, sitting up. Tom smiled at him in the dim light.  
  
Outside the abandoned warehouse, the sun was setting, and its elongated rays were cast upon the face of the revolutionary leader, who smiled at his friend.

"Yeah, it is," he agreed, stretching his arms. They were alone in this part of the warehouse. He sat with his back to a wall of the large place, knees drawn up to his chest, seemingly at home. "Especially after you've been hanging a hundred feet in the air for what feels like eternity."

Skinner snorted, sitting cross-legged. "You try doing that while going down from high in the heavens, and _then _we'll talk!" Tom laughed.

"Alright, you win," he laughed, then sobered. "Hey, Skinner?"

"Aye?"

"Thanks for coming for me," Tom said, sincerity in his voice. The invisible man shook his head, the trilby shaking from side to side.

"Don't thank me," Skinner answered. "Thank that Damon of yours. He contacted Nemo, who found us League members before we'd even heard of your arrest." Tom nodded. He knew to be thankful for the loyal friends he had.

"So," Skinner said, after a comfortable silence between the two old friends, "Tell me 'bout this meeting Damon was talking about, and those who're attending. It seems like a big event."

Tom nodded. "The largest we've had in many years. It involves the Underground's top, and the captain you met just now" — he nodded in the general direction of the rest of the warehouse, where the airship's crew and captain were — "his name is Robur. He's from our Russian branch, our first international cell. He'd contacted Sam Masters in 1903 to arrange a cell there, and now it's huge."

"The ship we were on is called the _Albatross,_" Tom continued. "It's the Nautilus of the air. Robur is the commander of a large fleet of such ships, and they're better than Dante's Aerial Attack Force. You may recall the summer three years ago, when dark shapes were reported in the clouds. Those were his airships."

"There're others, of course," Tom said. "Dr. Nikola, Sue, Percy, Ahab, Black, AJ, and Joe. (#3)"

"Oh, do tell," Skinner said. "Nikola's name is familiar."

"I'm not surprised if it is," Tom nodded. "He was active long before the war. He was a crime lord in London, and you may have seen him. He has a big black cat with him. He comes from our African bases, and the rest of the Underground knows him as the Duque Black. Then there's Sue. She's the only woman of us; her real name is Fah Lo Suee. You know of the Devil Doctor, Fu Manchu, right?"  
  
Know him? Fu Manchu was a legend in the underworld. "He's a legend, Tom; 'course I know him!"

Tom nodded again. "She's his daughter, and she's in charge of most of Asia. We all call her Sue; it's easier for us to pronounce, but her codename is the Countess Roseate. She's one of our youngest leaders. Asia has ground troops. They attack Dante's weapons factories and modify them to work better."

"Percy Blakeney is also known as the Scarlet Pimpernel and the Marquis Carmine. He's located in South America. His branch of the Underground's also known as the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel; they're famous, 'cause whenever he rescues people, he sends a piece of paper with a small, red flower — the scarlet pimpernel — to Dante's viceroy. His wife went with him when I sent him there, but a few years ago she was captured and charged with high treason." Tom's mood became grim. "Marguerite was executed with the guillotine."

It was ironic, really. The guillotine, despite its long history, was being used against the revolutionaries when in the French Revolution, it had been used to get rid of the aristocrats. Marguerite Blakeney had been adamant about banning the use of it, and her husband's small fortune helped move the authorities there a little.

"He's never really gotten over her death," Tom said to his friend. There was a short pause as Tom gathered his thoughts. "We have Lord Teal, or Captain Ahab. His ship is called the _Pequod. _I think Ishmael — yeah, the one who died in Venice — once served under him, although I'm not sure (#1). He has a fleet of ships, most of them being whalers. Their base is in Australia. He lost a leg in an encounter with a sperm whale, and he's a little obsessed with finding it and killing it."

"Has been for years, I reckon," Skinner piqued. The American nodded.

"Then there's AJ Raffles, or just AJ. We call him Lord Chrome. He takes care of the rest of Europe for me. He lost his best friend to Dante," Tom said, a shadow crossing his boyish features, "In the raid of 1905. That was just after I appointed him as my viceroy."  
  
He shifted, one knee drawn to his chest, the other stretched out before him. "The Victome de Cerulean is Captain Black. He has another fleet of ships up in Greenland. He's short, wears black, and smokes cigars like an iron ore plant. Our main base for naval repairs is commanded by him, and he recently outfitted his ships with a new kind of cannon that fire bullets, not cannonballs."

"And there's Joe." A ghost of a smile came to Tom's face. "He's an old friend of mine, Joe Harper, from St. Petersburg. He's also known as Comte Heliotrope. He's our American liaison. I'm the Black Duke, as you know," he finished, "and Damon's the Baron de Greene."

Skinner nodded. "So all of the Underground's head honchos are in town for what kind of meeting, exactly?"

"We meet to discuss whether to lead the world into the revolution we've been planning. It's been like this for years. I don't think anyone's noticed, but over the past year or so, we've been stepping up attacks on Dante's weapons facilities. It's been to make sure that he can't get replacement weapons quickly."

* * *

Damon bandaged Owen's arm, as the boy yelped in pain. A bullet had ricocheted off the building next to Owen's, and it had grazed his arm. 

"Be thankful it didn't cut too deep," Damon told Owen. "Or else we might have to stitch it up."

In truth, Damon felt guilty. He had been afraid of this, afraid of the children getting hurt. Owen had been the only one injured, thank goodness. The other children only had some scrapes here and there when they had escaped through the manholes and into the sewers along with the others involved in the rescue operation. 

Dr. Jekyll was in the corner of the Underground's main cavern, treating Nemo's men. The stoic captain stood to the side of the cavern, with the signal apparatus, talking to the men back on the Nautilus.

"But it hurts," Owen whined.

"Of course it does," Damon answered, putting the finishing touches on the bandage. "It's a bullet wound. There." He finished the bandaging, and patted Owen's arm lightly. "How does it feel?"  
  
The boy moved his arm. "I'll live, I reckon."

Damon nodded. "Good. Now, go check on the other kids. If there are any injuries..."

"...I'll bring 'em to see you or Dr. J, aye," Owen said, hopping off the supply crate he had been sitting on. "Thanks!" He called over his shoulder as he went off to find the other children.

Damon couldn't help but chuckle. The kids referred to Jekyll as 'Dr. J', much to his exasperation. Hyde had become 'Mr. H', much to the beast's amusement when he heard the whispered words between the street children.

Nemo was walking over to him. Damon straightened from his squatting position. "Any news, Captain?"

The Indian nodded. "The Nautilus reports that the _Albatross _escaped safely, with Skinner and Tom hanging from the rope ladder. They lost sight of the airship as it passed through some clouds. They expect word from Captain Robur anytime now in regards to the condition of the _Albatross_' crew."

Damon understood, and approved. Robur would send word, and soon. He was the Nemo of Russia, after all. "Thank you, Captain. I'm sure Tom would appreciate your help."

Nemo inclined his head slightly. "Tom is a friend. The League stays by its friends."

"I understand, Captain. It is the same here, in the Underground."

"Then we do have something in common after all."

"We've always had something in common, Captain: we're freedom fighters."

* * *

The headlines were full of the Black Duke's escape from the gallows. The words 'Underground Leader Escapes Death!' and 'Extraordinary Escape' were splashed across dozens of newspapers, not that anyone needed to be told. 

Old Quarter was rife with talk. Now that the Black Duke's real identity had been discovered, authorities and common folk alike were rushing to find out just who this Thomas Sawyer was. Where did he come from? Was he from England or Edinburgh as he had claimed? Did anyone know him?

On reflection, it was all very amusing, really.

Dr. Nikola closed the newspaper and set it down on the table, and it joined its other counterparts there. Leaning back in his seat, Nikola watched as his cat leapt off his shoulder lightly and onto the table.

"Ah, the resourcefulness of the Black Duke and his men never ceases to surprise me," Nikola said. To a casual observer he would have been speaking to himself, as there was no one else in the hotel room save the cat. "Does it you, Mistoffelees?" (#2)

The cat meowed in reply. It understood what Nikola and the rest of the world said, and from its perch on his shoulder it had been reading the news with him. Nikola scratched the back of one ear, and Mistoffelees purred in approval as it settled down on the table, its sleek black body gleaming in the evening light.

The two companions sat like this for some time, as the sun outside the hotel set and darkness descended upon London. There was a frenzied manhunt for Tom going on; the sounds of the search parties could be heard from the street below.

"Fools," Nikola said softly. "Fools. Do they really think the Black Duke will come out at such a dangerous time?"

Mistoffelees purred in response.

* * *

Fah Lo Suee sat on the divan, her long legs crossed over each other, smoking a cigarette. She raised a dark brow, and it did wonders in accenting her already-beautiful ivory face as old Sam Pak (#4) finished telling her the news. 

"He escaped?" she asked in Cantonese, which was one of the languages they understood, "From the king's gallows?"

"In a daring rescue attempt, my lady," Sam Pak said, his wizened hands hidden inside the huge sleeves of his Chinese robe. Sam Pak — whose real name was John Ki — had been Fu Manchu's political mentor, before coming his lieutenant before Lo Suee had been born. Lo Suee had grown up with Sam Pak, and one of her earliest memories was of him. Now that Lo Suee had taken over the running of the Asian Underground from her father, Sam served under her.

Lo Suee beamed with approval. She knew Tom Sawyer well, and had a fond liking of him; not like those between lovers, but between close cousins. "Where is he held now?"

"We do not know, my lady," Sam Pak answered. "We have been in contact with the Black Duke's men, but they have not told us anything."

Lo Suee's dark brow lifted a little bit higher, but she understood. _It must be for the best, _she thought, knowing that there had to be a mole somewhere in the Underground. How else would Dante and Reed have known where to get Tom in the first place? She may look like she was in her early twenties, but Lo Suee was longer-lived that most expected. Her genius father's _elixir vitae _had been spread out amongst his closest circle, those whom he trusted and consulted. Lo Suee was one of them.

She dismissed Sam Pak, and reclined in the divan, the smoke from her cigarette wafting up above her head in swirls of misty white. She was deep in Chinatown, where her father's bases were located. She stayed in the main one, and it reminded her of the old days, where her father had reigned supreme in the crime world and the name of the Si-Fan had made men tremble.

Now it was a new empire in place, and the name of the Second Reich was one to hate and spit at. A small smile came to Lo Suee's angular features as she thought of Sir Denis Nayland Smith (#5), ex-enemy of the Si-Fan. Now he was one of the Asian Underground's top men, working alongside the daughter of the man he had sworn to destroy. It was all very ironic, really.

_No, _she corrected herself, _It is not ironic. It is a product of circumstance. _

_And circumstance demands our victory.

* * *

_

(#1) Anyone who's read _Moby Dick; Or, The Whale _will know this is true. The whole story is told from Ishmael's standpoint.

(#2) Mistoffelees is the 'magical Mister Mistoffelees', from Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical _Cats_. Some lines used to describe him are 'Well never was there ever/A cat so clever as magical Mr. Mistoffelees!', 'vague and aloof' and 'quiet and small/He is black/From the ears to the tip of his tail'.

(#3) These are literary characters, chiefly from the Victorian era. For more about them, please refer to the 'Literary References' in my website's Revolution page.

(#4) Sam Pak was created by Sax Rohmer, and I am under the impression he first appeared in _The Hand of Fu Manchu _(1934). He did not take the Doctor's _elixir vitae _(elixir of youth) and chose to live out his unnaturally long lifespan.

(#5) Sir Denis Nayland Smith is the hero of the _Fu Manchu _stories; he is Fu Manchu's antithesis.


	14. Chapter 13

**Alys: **-cries- Noo! I want my cookies! -gives you Puss in Boots eyes- Pwease? See, I updated!

**angel-flame: **Nah, the only climax you're gonna get here is a revolution. -pauses- Which, I think, is as good as any. 

* * *

**Revolution  
****Chapter 13**

"_It is impossible to predict the time and progress of revolution. It is governed by its own more or less mysterious laws. But when it comes it moves irresistibly."  
__- Nikolai Lenin_

Again the search parties were out. Now, patrols had been upped from just in the nighttime to almost around the clock.

For the residents of Old Quarter, it was all the more reason to be careful. Damon, walking along the street under the disguise of an old man, had seen children playing with stones in the place of marbles.

He knew a game that they liked was called Fight. A player would use his stones and 'fight' with his opponent's, like in chess, just not so organized. Recently, the stones were being named 'The Black Duke' and 'the Kwaden baddie'.

The small crowd of children had gathered around two players, and Damon had stolen over to watch. No-one paid him a mind, and he was thankful for that. When the boy playing Dante's side had won, the crowd booed.

It had been of some comfort to know that even children didn't like the Second Reich.

Rainwater ran through the sewers — it was raining out _again _— but it didn't really bother Damon, who expertly navigated through the maze of tunnels and shafts. He dodged the puddles and the small stream that was running through the gutter, mentally making a note to be careful when climbing up or down a ladder.

The sun had just set, and the meeting of the Underground's top ten was about to begin.

The fate of the world would be decided.

* * *

Skinner swore to himself, that, from this day onwards, he was never setting foot on anything higher than ten feet in the air. 

They had touched down about a mile from the venue of the meeting, splitting up from there. Robur was going alone; he knew Limehouse well enough to get to Quong Lee's. According to Tom, besides the sewers and the secret entrance at the teashop, there was another way into the underground base.

It took them about half an hour to find it, but that was mainly due to the fact that it was located on the other side of the city.

No one really looked at the man who was dressed like someone out of an All Hallows Eve party; they assumed that he was one of the nobility, back from a dress party. Skinner matched Tom pace by pace, unseen and unheard beside him.

The streets of High End were filled with carriages, although a few of London's nobles deigned to lower themselves to walking along the pavement. More than once, Skinner had to dodge passerby and walk onto the street, which then necessitated leaping away from oncoming carriages.

By the time they got to the house, he was very tired of it.

"It's inside," Tom whispered to him. "Hold on." He rung the doorbell, and a remarkably pretty young man opened the door.

"Hello, Orlando (#1)," Tom greeted, and Skinner was impressed over how high-strung he sounded.

The glint of recognition in Orlando's eyes was brief, but cleverly covered. "Oh, James!" Orlando cried, hands open as if about to hug Tom, "It's been so long! Come in! Come in!" He stepped aside, letting Tom and Skinner inside. Skinner had to push past the man, who looked visibly startled.

Behind them, the door was locked with an audible _click._ Skinner welcomed the warmth of the house; outside, it was getting chillier, and he was without coat.

Orlando led them through the house, which was bigger than anything Skinner had seen in the past few years. There was a noticeable lack of servants around; obviously, he did not want his activities as an Underground sympathizer to be reported.

They went up a flight of stairs and into a study. Here, Orlando locked the door again and motioned for silence. Tom handed over the dark coat he wore back to its owner, and Skinner gladly accepted it.

"The walls have ears," Orlando whispered, barely sparing Skinner a glance. "Be quiet."

_What is it with immortals? _Skinner asked himself. _Do they **always**_ _have invisible men in their homes? _

Tom nodded his understanding and looked inside the empty fireplace. "Is the other end open?" 

"They await your arrival, Duke."

"Good," Tom bobbed his head. "Skinner, come on."

The invisible man stared in disbelief at the fireplace. "You mean...the entrance is through _there?" _

"Why not?" Tom asked.

_Because I'm terrified of fire and anything to do with it..._Skinner banished those thoughts. "It's a fireplace, in case you haven't noticed."

Orlando arched one elegant brow. Tom merely sighed. "Yes, Skinner, it's a fireplace. It's also a way into our headquarters."

He remained skeptical. "How're you supposed to get in, then?"

Tom gave a light sigh, and bent down. The fireplace was large enough for Skinner to stand inside, if he crouched down.

Tom pushed aside some of the burnt logs, ash covering his arms, and reveal a trapdoor. Skinner drew nearer as Tom pulled it open, peering into the deep bottomless pit that was reveal.

"Down here," the other man said, pointing. "There're people waiting below for us. We just have to jump down."

"Jump _down?!" _

"Skinner, just follow, okay? Trust me." With that, Tom lowered himself into the opening and let go of the sides. Although Skinner listened for the sound of — god forbid — breaking bones, it never came. In fact, no sound came at all.

Skinner looked at Orlando, who stared passively back. With a sound that could have either signaled discontent, resignation, or both, Skinner followed suit and lowered himself into the shaft. He hesitated, not sure if he should take that drop of faith into a potentially painful and dangerous situation. 

Taking a deep breath, Skinner closed his eyes and let go of the edges, dropping into the darkness.

* * *

Tom waited below, wondering what was taking Skinner so long. His question was answered soon, though, when he heard thumps and choice words echoing inside the long shaft that led underground. An old mattress was the only break from the fall one would suffer, if one didn't know how to slide down properly. 

_Here he comes, _he thought wryly. Sure enough, a black coat came tumbling out from the open end, and Skinner hit the old mattress there with a curse and a loud 'omph'. A big cloud of dust rose from the mattress.

Skinner lay curled up on the mattress, his eyes tightly closed.

"Am I dead yet?" he asked quietly. Tom laughed.

"No, Skinner, you're not dead," he grinned. "You never were."

Skinner opened his eyes, blinking in the dim light. "Where are we?" he asked as Tom took his arm and pulled him to his feet.

"Underneath Orlando's house," Tom answered, dusting him off. "Close to base."

Skinner coughed, using a hand a clear the air of the dust. "How far?" 

"Not very," Tom added, looking about for the door. "Probably take us about a quarter of an hour to get there."

* * *

There was a low murmur of conversation going on inside the meeting tent. Damon sat next where Tom would be seated, in front of the Underground's sole flag. He looked about, awed by the number of people the tent held. 

Sue's brilliant green eyes fixed upon Percy's keen blue ones; the two were involved in a verbal joust across the table that Percy used to have with his beloved Marguerite. Sue's long manicured fingers were stroking Mistoffelees. The cat purred and arched its back, settling comfortably in Sue's arms.

His owner sat next to the massive Percy, discussing the virtues of various chemicals with Mina. The two chemists exchanged views and recipes; after all, who was more qualified to tell each other how to kill someone using the most subtle of poisons?

Dr. Henry Jekyll and AJ were buried deep in French wines, and the good doctor was not averse to voicing his opinions, despite his shyness.

"I am a Chardonnay person, myself," AJ was saying, "Although Merlots are not entirely out of the question."

Tall, dark and handsome, Robur had just arrived, and, true to form, was sitting in his place, almost anti-social in his listening to AJ and Jekyll. Occasionally he would offer some input, but that was rare and little.

The silent Nemo quickly engaged him in conversation. It didn't take them long to hit it off together, what with being each other's counterparts in marine and aerial warfare.

Joe Harper, with his boyish good looks, was involved with a debate with the Captains Ahab and Black about ships. Joe was fascinated by how Black had adapted some of steamboat technology to use on his ships.

Damon watched all of these with a touch of humor. _Good to know our people get along well with the League, _he thought, watching as Ahab emphasized his point by stamping his wooden leg on the ground. There was a loud _packpackpack _as he did so.

Tom and Skinner were due any minute now. They were just waiting for those two, and then the meeting could start.

It went without saying that Damon was excited. Ten years of planning, secret work and dreams had preceded this meeting. Today, the Underground would see if the call for arms would be sent out. Today, history would be decided.

The League had already pledged their allegiance; Tom or Damon need not ask again. The Underground viceroys would do all they could to make the Underground the victor in the fight ahead.

Vast resources and manpower were at their fingertips; already the last of Ahab and Black's ships were being outfitted with landmark technology of the Underground's. Robur's aerial fleet were conducting drills; Joe's ports were receiving an increased amount of supplies; Percy's League were teaching the improvised farmer how to wield swords and guns; Nikola's natives were conducting rituals to seek protection from the gods; AJ was expecting a shipment of gunpowder by the end of the week — millions of people were preparing for a war. A war that would give them a better life if they won. A war that would break Dante and Reed's tyranny and usher in a new government, one that would take care of them.

The Underground was not going to let them down.

* * *

(#1) Orlando is the immortal from Virginia Woolf's _Orlando: A Biography _(1928). Orlando, in the novel, changes gender overnight and tells the story of the ages, starting from the time of Queen Elizabeth and ending in 1928. 


	15. Chapter 14

**Marcus Lazarus:** Oh, horrors, no. I would never steal anything from you. I have way too much respect for you to do something like that. I got the 'Dr. J' from my brother — he shortens almost everybody's last names (i.e. I would become Miss S, etc.).

**Alys: **Yay! Cookie! -grins-

**DiabloCat: **The last time I touched a copy of _Moby Dick _must have been almost six years ago. Oo But I still do remember only one line: 'Call me Ishmael'.

* * *

**Revolution  
Chapter 14**

"_Why does the guerrilla fighter fight? We must come to the inevitable conclusion that the guerrilla fighter is a social reformer, that he takes up arms responding to the angry protest of the people against their oppressors, and that he fights in order to change the social system that keeps all his unarmed brothers in ignominy and misery."  
__- Ernesto "Che" Guevara_

Skinner followed as Tom led the way through the huge cavern, nodding to the guards posted all along the area. They were armed with various guns, none of which matched; there were Webleys, Colts and Winchesters, among others.

They were prepared for an assault, it seemed, and they had good reason to — if the Black Duke had been captured, what hope was there for them?

Tom pulled open the canvas flap that was the 'door' of the meeting tent. All those who had been talking turned to see who the newcomer was, and the black cat in the woman's arms leapt to the ground, coming up to Tom and purring.

Skinner was surprised at how diverse the group inside was. The League members and Damon not included, there were eight others.

The only woman in the group was a stunning specimen of feminine beauty. True, her nose was a little too big for classic beauty, but her mesmerizing green eyes and long, manicured nails more than made up for that. Her full lips were slightly parted, enhancing her well-cut features. The dress she wore was a stunning shade of emerald, and Skinner recalled Tom mentioning that green was the color of the Si-Fan. She was clearly Asian, but could pass off for a European without too much difficulty. The thief didn't need to be a scientist to know that this was Fah Lo Suee.

Opposite her was an undeniably handsome man. Even though he was sitting down, he was almost half a head taller than everyone else. His broad shoulders set off the tailored coat he wore nicely, and his blue eyes were just as brilliant as the woman's. He looked like a noble, but he had tanned skin. It was more of a light chocolate brown than a dark tan of a field worker. On closer inspection, Skinner saw a thin sword hanging by the man's side, the kind used for fencing. _So, this is Percy Blakeney, _Skinner thought.

Next to him was another man. Skinner gauged him to be slightly taller than the average man. Like Percy, he had broad shoulders, but his limbs were slim. They were muscular, Skinner could tell as much. A head full of glossy black hair matched his piercing dark eyes. His skin was of an olive hue, and his clothes were neatly pressed. The cat in Sue had been holding had leapt down from her arms, and slinked its way to him. Skinner recognized him from Tom's description, and the cat confirmed his theory. This was Dr. Nikola.

Beside him was Mina; the three seats on her other side were empty. _Probably for us and Damon, _Skinner said, glancing at Tom's lieutenant, who stood to the side. 

At the other end of the table from Percy, Skinner saw the quiet Robur — tall, dark and handsome. His features suggested some kind of Eastern European heritage. He had taken off his disguise as one of the Dante's Aerial Attack Force officers, and now his semi-militaristic uniform was in full view. Unlike Nemo's, though, it bore no Eastern influence.

Across the table was his marine counterpart. The Indian captain was beside the fidgety Dr. Jekyll. He, in turn, sat next to AJ Raffles.

AJ had hair the color of sand. He was probably in his early-forties or so, judging by the lines on his face — then again, those might have been caused by stress. He had a rigid jaw which went hand-in-hand with his slightly-curled nose. His features were carved in granite by a sculptor with an eye for detail and masculine beauty.

There was a younger man who sat next to him looked to be Tom's age. Skinner knew this was Joseph Harper, or Joe, as Tom called him. The boyish looks, the chocolate hair and green eyes were like Tom's — full of youthful enthusiasm.

He had been speaking to a much older man on his right. Ahab's face showed clear signs of years at sea, and his wooden leg was easy to notice. What hair he had was sun-tanned, but there was evidence that it had once been a light blond. He had a thin face — probably due to the lack of meat while at sea — but the dark orbs that stared out of the shrunken eyes were so haunted they were unsettling. Skinner had to look away.

Captain Black was, as Tom had told him, short. He was the shortest of those present, a sharp contrast to the massive Percy. He had a cigar in his mouth, and his head was almost hidden behind the gray smoke that wafted about his person. He was dressed entirely in black, as if in mourning. There was no doubt that once, a long time ago, he was handsome — but the years had withered him, made him harder. Like Ahab, his skin was weather-beaten. And like Ahab, his black eyes were testament to what the years had dealt him.

"Sorry to have kept you waiting," Tom apologized as he made his way to his seat. Skinner followed, and dutifully sat down in the chair that Tom gestured to. It was next to his own, next to Robur. "We had to get in by the duct."

"I hope we don't have to repeat that ever again," Skinner muttered under his breath. If anybody heard it, they did not give any indication. Damon sat next to Tom, who remained standing.

"You all know why we're here," he said, leaning forward to that his palms rested on the table. Keen blue eyes looked each and every one present with a seriousness and gravity that came along with the fate of the known world. "And I think you're all sure what the outcome of our meeting will be."

"That leaves us with only a few things to discuss," he continued. "The most important thing being: when do we mobilize our forces?"

* * *

To say that Dante was not happy was the understatement of several centuries.

A distinct roaring had come from his study in sporadic bursts. The corridor outside was almost empty, and when people _did _pass it, they hurried by, hoping that they wouldn't be unlucky enough to be there when the roaring continued.

Dante hadn't left his study since the Black Duke's escape. Reed had gone in, and in the past two days no one had entered or left that room. Chauvelin hung around; he had nothing to do outside his normal duties, and even those were finished his usual meticulous care.

It was already past sundown, and Chauvelin was about to end his day's worth of loitering when the doors to the king's personal study opened and a tired-looking Reed came out.

"Rest assured the Kwaden shall be ready," he was saying. On instinct, Chauvelin slipped into a dark archway, an unseen observer. Reed had his hat in hand; the 'skin' he had been wearing when Tom had escaped was nowhere to be seen. He halted in front of the study door, where one could just make out Dante's silhouette. "Long live the Second Reich!" He clenched his fist and rested it where his heart was.

"Hail!" Dante responded. With a nod, Reed left.

Chauvelin waited until Reed's echoing footsteps faded, and the _click _of the study door closing was heard before venturing out of his hiding place.

Something was up.

* * *

"Ahab?" Tom looked directly at the haunted sea captain, "What d'you say?"

He paused before answering. "It will be very risky — I shall need the same amount of supplies as Black, perhaps more — but if we can destroy Dante's repair and restock units, they will be put at a serious disadvantage."

"Make a list of targets and work your way down from there," Tom nodded, turning to his long-time friend. "Joe? How about it?"

"We'll show them American spirit alright," Joe Harper nodded. "We're sending folks to Washington as we speak. Weapons should reach 'em by next Monday, latest."

"Good," Tom nodded again. "Sue, how does Asia fare?"

Sue replied in crisp, concise tones. "Our Singapore port is ready to deploy battleships, should Captain Ahab need any assistance, and for our own use. China and India have confirmed that medical supply and food shipments have been sent out. Asia is ready."

"Great," Tom leaned back in his seat. "Great. The world's ready for war."

There was a pause as everyone gathered their thoughts. Skinner felt compelled to speak up. "Sawyer...what happens to the League?"

"Don't worry," the American smiled. "I haven't forgotten about you guys. You'll be here, in London — we're gonna bring down Dante at the heart of his empire, and we're gonna need all the manpower and talent we can get."

The League members nodded, agreeing. Dante was heavily guarded — Reed had his Kwaden — and there was always the risk that Dante could turn into the Dante-beast at will. Jekyll still had nightmares about it, while Hyde would gladly give for another chance to have a go at the monster.

"We still haven't decided on a date yet," Damon pointed out.

"Right," Tom nodded again. "Any suggestions?"

There were none. Mistoffelees leapt lightly from Nikola's shoulder, where it had been curled up, and onto the table. From beneath the pile of documents on the table, it used its small mouth to pull out one at the very bottom.

Everyone leaned in to see what it was. The intelligent cat had pulled out a calendar. It used a paw to flip the calendar from June to July, and used the same paw to pat on a date emphatically.

"Begad, Nikola," Percy exclaimed, "Your cat gets smarter by the day!"

Nikola inclined his head with quiet pride. Mistoffelees meowed and went back to its owner, curling up close to him, its keen cat-eyes gleaming in the low light.

The general reaction to the cat's choice of date was nods and approving looks. Skinner had no idea why July 11th meant so much; after all, his memories of the past ten years consisted of opium dazes, Owen's brief stay, more drugs, and drink.

"What's so important about July 11th?" he asked outright. The looks he got caused him to wince; some were of quiet amusement and surprise, while others were just plain surprised. Sue and Percy shared a look of passive disapproval.

"Every July 11th Dante celebrates his ascension to kingship," Damon supplied. "Despite the fact that everyone knows he has no legitimate claim to any title of nobility."

Tom looked thoughtful. "He'll want to stage a parade of some kind. The latest rumor from the kids in the street is that he's planning a bigger and brighter procession than last year's."

"We can move then," he continued. "We strike hard and we strike fast. We show them what the people can do."

"Cry 'Havoc!' and let loose the dogs of war," Sue quoted.

"Shakespeare couldn't have said it better," Tom agreed.

Skinner nodded, and stretched his arms. "It's about time the Second Reich got their royal backsides handed back to them on a silver platter."


	16. Chapter 15

**Revolution  
****Chapter 15**

"_Live free or die!"  
__- New Hampshire state slogan_

The revolutionaries filed out of the cavern, heading their separate ways through the network of sewers. Skinner watched from inside the tent as Percy offered Sue his arm, and they strode off arm-in-arm.

"They make a good couple, don't you think?" Tom asked from beside the thief. He leaned against the sturdy canvas as the two disappeared into one of the exits.

"Yeah," he agreed. There was a pause between them, while the last of Tom's viceroys left. Damon had retired earlier, saying that he wanted to go check on Owen and the other children. "Are you sure we're ready for this, Sawyer?"

"Frankly? No. But," he added, "I think the people are. They've had time to prepare. Ten years, in fact."

"But what about weapons? Supplies? I don't think you're going to fight with forks and knives, are ye?" Skinner quirked a brow.

Tom gave a short laugh. "No, we aren't. First thing in the morning the call for arms suppliers goes out. We have our own supply of guns and bullets anyway. Sure, they're not enough for everyone, but they'll do."

"Aye," Skinner nodded. "But you _know _how powerful Dante is, with all o' M's weapons."

"Trust me, I know," Tom said, quietly. "And I'm not gonna lie and say it's going to be an easy fight." A kind of strong resolution gleamed in his youthful eyes at this. "But I'll be damned to hell if I don't try."

"Or to Dante's gallows again," Skinner muttered. He wagged a finger at his friend. "I'm not going to hang from that airship all o'er again, mind."

Tom laughed again. "Don't worry. I'll die before I go to those gallows all over again."

_Let's hope that doesn't happen, _Skinner thought.

* * *

Morning came, as they always do. The minute the sun rose and the air warmed, the call for arms went out in London — quietly, of course.

Any man would could make bullets, donate gunpowder, and fix guns — anything. Collection points were set up around Old Quarter. Quong Lee's teashop saw many costumers that day, and the one after it.

Tom and Damon were busy coordinating the operation. Arsène and his men were faces oft seen, and once in a while Mistoffelees would show up.

Skinner helped out, rolling barrels of gunpowder across the cavern and doing other odd jobs. The street children had managed to find bullet shells — Owen refused to say where — and various odds and ends that would help.

Tom was involved in fixing the guns, especially Winchesters. Replacements parts were dug up from junk piles, while Orlando and others like him provided other spare parts.

The turnout was enormous. Everyone from different walks of life came to help. There were blacksmiths here, iron workers over there. Street kids from outside London came, offering scraps of metal to be melted down.

All six feet of Percy came down to help, and much laughter could be heard whenever he was. Nikola and Mistoffelees came later on, bringing along with them a vial of black powder that Nikola had developed. "Better than gunpowder, and safer", he told Tom.

Nemo's men with their blues and whites were all over the place, peppered throughout the grays and blacks of the common people.

A woman carrying a fairly large bag came and Damon showed her to one of the tent; Skinner later learned that her name was Lois Cayley (#1).

She only emerged much later, and spoke to Damon and Tom. Then the three disappeared inside the tent again, and two minutes later Tom sent out Owen to summon the rest of the viceroys.

All of them came, and Sue raised a brow as she saw Percy. His sleeves were rolled up, his coat left somewhere in the cavern. He was cheery and sweaty.

Everyone was locked out of the meeting that took place in the tent. Even Skinner wasn't allowed in, and while he tried to sneak inside, Nikola's cat smelled him out.

When they came out, almost all of them were carrying a small package wrapped in brown paper. No-one knew what it was; Tom and Damon wouldn't say.

Just after they left, Owen came running into the cavern and nearly crashed into Tom. He was sweaty and panting, and he looked urgent.

"She's dead!" he blurted. "She's dead! They just found her!"

"Who's dead?" Tom asked, crouching down so that he was able to hold Owen by the shoulders. "Who?"

"Zalma! Zalma's dead! Gone! Kaput!" The young boy gestured wildly. "Dead! They just found her in her house!" Tom's eyes went wide as he looked at Damon, who looked as if his brother had died.

"Zalma? Who's Zalma?" Skinner asked Damon while Tom interrogated Owen.

"Tom's counterpart in Congress," he replied grimly. "One of us, if not of our members."

"They said she was in her study an' she had this in her hand," Owen was saying, as he pulled out a folded piece of paper from his pocket. "Took it while they was taking away her body."

Tom raised a brow and took the paper from him. He read it once, twice, and then gave it to Damon. "It says 'Napoleon's death'. Any idea what it's supposed to mean?" Skinner shrugged. All he knew of Napoleon was that he was dead, and he had been powerful. Damon looked thoughtful, rubbing his chin.

"Napoleon died by poisoning," he said and Tom stood up. "Do you think she went the same way? Dante could've put spies in her home, in the kitchen, and got them to slip in some kind of poison."

"I don't know," Tom admitted. "But we need to go see for ourselves." He turned to Owen. "Owen, I need you to do something for me. Don't spread the word around, not yet. Go and get Dr. Nikola, the one with the cat; tell him to meet us here in an hour."

Owen nodded and ran off. Tom ran a hand through his blond locks and sighed. "This isn't good. At all."

"Where're we going in an hour?" Damon asked, one brow up.

"To see her body, of course."

* * *

Nikola was without his cat, which was more unusual than if a green cow came gallivanting through the middle of Trafalgar Square in a London heatwave, Skinner thought. He followed behind the deadly doctor, Tom and Damon as they entered Zalma's house on Fleet Street.

The small house was right next to Sweeney Todd's closed barber shop. The demon barber of Fleet Street had once operated here, and Zalma's humble little home was right in the place were his lover, Mrs. Lovatt, would make them into lovely meat pies. Skinner was actually glad he was a poor man. Years ago he had nearly bought one of those pies. (#2)

Zalma's home was swarming with people. A crowd had gathered outside, while the bobbies went about inside. Damon had arranged for the real forensic team to be waylaid on their way, and he, Tom and Nikola made up the phony team. Tom had chosen Nikola because of his expertise in poisons. The doctor was cryptic about where Mistoffelees had gone to.

"Make way, I say, make way!" Damon ordered under the guise of the medical team's head. His hair had gone from black to blond, courtesy of a wig, and no-one would have been able to guess he was Damon Archer. Tom and Nikola were the same; they were unrecognizable as three important Underground figures. Skinner followed close behind them, making sure to keep out of the way.

"Her body's over there, sir," a detective said, meeting them at the landing of the second-floor stairs. "In the study."

"Good. What's your name, man?" Damon asked, sounding both pompous and dismissive at the same time.

"Detective Sexton Blake (#3), sir," Blake answered. "I'm in charge of this case." Tom knew Blake; they hadn't met before, but Blake was in charge of the Underground headquarters' security. He was a good man, smart and comparable to Sherlock Holmes.

"Your job now," Damon told him as the rest of them entered Zalma's neat study, "Is to make sure none of your men enter the room while we're inside. Understand?"

"Perfectly, sir," Blake answered. No one would dare enter; the coroners were of high authority, after all. Damon nodded and went inside and closed the door behind him. Nikola was already examining Zalma's body. Skinner stood near the table.

Zalma was one of the people's heroes, due in part to the fact that she was aggressive in lobbying for changes that would benefit the general populace. Of Russian and Spanish heritage, she was beautiful and passionate about the cause. 

She was slumped over the table, her dark locks gleaming in the light of the room. The pen she had been holding was still gripped in her hand. Her body was still warm, as Nikola told Tom, and they pushed her back so that her front was exposed. Zalma had been pale when Tom had last seen her during his stint on the gallows; now, she was as white as a fresh-pressed sheet. It was ghastly; Skinner repressed a gasp. All the blood had drained from her face, and her ebony eyes were still open in a disturbing death-mask. Tom, wearing gloves, closed her eyes.

"Rest in peace, Zalma," he whispered. Nikola was doing what he was supposed to do, tinkering with a few of his instruments and drawing blood for tests.

Damon poked around the room. They were not going to be disturbed, so it was safe. There was a plate of fruit, cheese and bread to the side, and he took a sniff at it. It smelled normal; he could sense no evidence of any tampering. A glass of water stood next to the plate, and Damon crouched down to examine its contents.

"There're some kind of white powder in here," he said, glancing over his shoulder at the others. Skinner went over to where he squatted, glad to be away from the corpse. "Looks like salt."

"Take a sample of it," Nikola ordered. "I shall want to run some tests on it." Damon complied, removing a container from the bag he had been carrying and pouring the water in, making sure the powder went in.

"So? What do you think?" Skinner asked Nikola quietly, so as not to be heard. "Was she murdered?"

"It's too early to say," Nikola admitted. "But the circumstances surrounding Miss Pahlen's death does seem to lean in that direction. The note, and her own beliefs. I will not know until I examine her blood and the substance found in the water."

"When can you get back to us?" Damon asked, glancing at Zalma. He did not know her personally, but admired her strength and courage. Her killer had to be brought to justice.

"Tomorrow morning before I set sail for Morocco."

* * *

Dante massaged his temples. The voice was coming back at him again, egging him on.

_Let me out, Dante, _it said over and over again. _You know you want to. _

He couldn't let it out. Letting the Dante-beast out would mean severe exhaustion for the man later on. Over the past two days, when he had been locked up in his personal study, Dante had been so angry that he kept changing form.

It happened; that overdose of Jekyll's formula years ago had its lasting effects. Whenever Dante was in a rage, he would turn into the Dante-beast. The only one who could control the Dante-beast was Reed, and even then he had trouble.

The Dante-beast was all base instincts and primal emotions: rage, panic and hunger. Dante did not want to lower himself to that level unnecessarily, but he had to concede that having the Dante-beast around had served his purpose before.

_Let me out, _the beast chanted. _Let me out..._

_No! _Dante yelled in his mind. _No! _

_Yes! Yes! _It chanted back, taunting him, egging him on.

_No! Not until the time is right! _

The voice kept quiet.

* * *

(#1) Lois Cayley was created by Grant Allen, appearing in _Miss Cayley's Adventures_ (1898). While it's not stated in the stories that Lois is an artist, it's not too far out of the question.

(#2) Sweeney Todd was known as the "demon barber of Fleet Street". I can find very little information on his creator(s). I do know he appeared in a penny dreadful (maybe several) before the time of Jack the Ripper. From what I know of Sweeney Todd, he would offer his services as a barber. Those who went in for a shave never came back out again; their necks were broken and they were made into meat pies by a Mrs. Lovatt, Todd's lover, who ran a meat-pie business.

(#3) Sexton Blake appeared in the "The Missing Millionaire" of _The Halfpenny Marvel _sometime in December 1893. His creator was a "Hal Meredith".


	17. Chapter 16

**Revolution  
****Chapter 16**

_"Liberty is worth paying for."  
__- Jules Verne_

The news of Zalma's death broke out the next morning, just as Nikola's results came in. She had been slowly killed by rat poison, probably slipped into her food. The white powder Damon had found in the water was some kind of medicine, one that Nikola believed Zalma to have been taking as an antidote to the poison, a whole lot of good it did.

There were a few small riots all around Old Quarter, but those were quickly settled before the Kwaden came. Tom had to step in more than once, exercising his authority as folk hero of the poor.

"We need every man we can get for the fight ahead," he had said to one bruised and bloodied group. "Are you going to risk death before your time of glory?" It had worked exceedingly well. The men were sent back to their wives, who would probably give them more hell than the Underground could.

The rest of the day Tom had spent in mourning. The Black Duke wanted to make arrangements for her funeral, since Zalma had had no family, but he was informed someone had already beat him to it. The undertaker only knew the man who had come to take her body as Smith. They had searched the city, but this Smith was not to be found. In their enquiries to Smith, though, they realized that he bore a very strong resemblance to Chauvelin. It was disturbing, to say the least.

Also on the way, one of Tom's contacts had informed him that Dante was planning something for the week after Zalma's death, but didn't know what it was. The level of tension rose after that, and the guard around the cavern was stepped up. The Underground members were more careful in their activities.

Dante's plan was finally revealed a week later.

* * *

"_This is your King speaking," _Dante's voice came over the radio. John St. Leger (#1) sat in the quaint little French café, listening to the sole radio that the owner had perched on the edge of a shelf. _"This is being broadcast world-wide." _

Dante started to talk about how the tenth anniversary of his rule was coming, and how he felt that the world was a better place. It was really all the standard fare of the week leading up to the celebrations. Then, the king of the world delivered the blow:

"_The late member of Congress, Zalma von der Pahlen, shall be honored with a state funeral and procession on the day of the celebration." _

St. Leger was enraged. He had known Zalma; she was all for the people's freedom, and Dante _dared _to say he held her in such high regard? It was an outrage! The reaction from the other patrons of the café suggested they felt the same. There was a roar of rage from everyone in general. Even the owner's dog growled at the radio.

Suddenly, another voice cut in the middle of Dante's sentence.

"_I am the Black Duke. I represent the people and the Underground. People of the world, listen to Dante! He says he plans to honor Zalma as a hero!" _Tom's voice came over the radio. While not a member of the Underground, St. Leger was a quiet supporter of freedom and he knew the Black Duke's name well. _"I ask you: will you accept this? Will you accept his hypocrisy?" ___

* * *

The signal had cut through his own address so quickly that Dante was at a loss what to do for a few moments. Then, with a roar of rage, he ordered the signal technicians to trace and cut off the Underground's signal.

"_...his hypocrisy?" _Tom asked, a mockery of his own address. The technicians scrambled to stop the interference as Reed yelled threats at them to quicken the work. Dante's main study suddenly became a flurry of activity.

He and Reed had planned this. They both had known the Black Duke would be enraged that Zalma would be hailed as a hero of the Second Reich. They both had known that he probably would use another signal to interfere with Dante's worldwide speech. It would now take them time to trace the signal and find him.

"_...won't! The Underground won't!" _he was saying. Dante growled at the microphone.

"We can't trace the signal, sir," Chauvelin said quietly, appearing behind Reed. "They are jamming all our tracing efforts." Reed glanced at Dante, could see he was getting angrier and angrier. "But," the Frenchman added quickly, "We will keep trying. We may be able to patch through, sir."

"Do it! Tell anyone who doesn't do their job well that if I found out," Reed said, turning to face his protégée with a glint of malice in his invisible eyes, "That I will hunt down their families and make sure none of them will ever be coming to the door to say 'welcome back' ever again."

With a small bow and nod, Chauvelin disappeared into the whirlwind of activity again.

* * *

The signal operator sat at the table, fiddling with the dials and knobs on the large radio-signal machine. Tom was next to the man, speaking into the microphone. Everyone in the Underground cavern crowded around the single signal radio that the London Underground owned. Damon and Skinner were Tom's left, listening as he spoke to the world.

"It's time to stand up," Tom said with all the force and authority years as the Black Duke had earned him, "It's time to fight back! It's time to fight for a better future for the world, for your children, for all those who are to come."

There was sudden movement as the signal operator moved to jam the tracing signal that Dante's men were sending along their own. Tom paused for a bit, watching, and only when the signal operator nodded did he continue.

"The Second Reich has ruled for almost ten years. I don't know about you, but I still remember the time before the rule of the Second Reich. I remember a time when I could actually use my money to buy stuff for the people I know. I remember a time when life wasn't as hard for the farmers as it is now. I remember a time when the law was the law, and no one could buy their way around a murder charge. I ask you, every one of you, this:

"What do you want? To live on your knees or to die on your feet?"(#1)

* * *

AJ had his arms folded across his chest as he listened to his leader speak to the people of the world. All activities had stopped as Dante's voice came up on the radio, but now all was perfectly still. People forgot the fact that they were supposed to pay their taxes before noon, but listened to Tom's speech.

"_What do you want? To live on your knees or to die on your feet?" _he finished.

Standing the middle of Paris' equivalent of Old Quarter, AJ listened to the broadcast that boomed from the speakers that lined various places around France. A loud roar came up from around him, then somebody started a chant. _"Liberté! Liberté! Liberté!" _

It began to spread. Soon, the whole city rang with the call for freedom. AJ beamed. The French spirit of freedom and enthusiasm had been reawakened. _Liberté! _He thought, putting his bag down on the ground and joining the people in the cheer.

* * *

Sue listened to the radio, the smoke from her cigarette floating above her head as she sat in the divan of her small home. Around Beijing, the words were being translated into Chinese. Further in Asia, various Underground language experts would be translating the words for the people to understand.

"_I ask you, every one of you, this: Would you rather live no your knees or to die on your feet?" _Tom asked. There was a slight pause, and then the Chinese translation came on. It was followed very quickly by a roar of approval from the citizens of China's capital, which was quickly followed by yells of freedom. Sue nodded approvingly as the shouts became a chant.

It was time the fight began.

* * *

"_...or to die on your feet?" _

Moscow became deadly still as the last of Tom's translated speech faded into the cold morning light. Robur listened to the original speech on a frequency that was wholly English; the last tendrils of the Russian translation floated high above the city. Almost immediately, a roar emanated from the factories; then it spread to the shops; to the houses; and to the street.

Soon the large city was cheering, a roar of freedom in the stillness of a Russian spring day. The master of the air settled into his seat, a rare smile on his stone-craved features.

* * *

"_What do you want? To live on your knees or to die on your feet?"_

A sort of rumble started through the crowd that had gathered near the White House. It was low at first, and then rose in pitch and volume. Soon it was a nation-wide cry engulfed North America and Washington.

Joe grinned. _About time, Tom, _he thought, joining in the resounding yell. _About time. _

From the bow of his whaler, Ahab held his telescope to one eye and watched as people flooded the streets and dock area of Melbourne to hear Tom's broadcast. On the deck of the _Pequod _his sailors were also listening. 

"_I remember a time when the law was the law, and no one could buy their way around a murder charge. I ask you, every one of you, this: What do you want? To live on your knees or to die on your feet??"_

The response was overwhelming. Faint cheers of 'die on my feet!' were heard, and soon a chant had formed and grew louder and louder. From their place about half a mile away from shore, the _Pequod_'s crew heard the chant clearly as it reached its crescendo.

"Freedom!" the words came. "Freedom! Freedom!"

Ahab kept the telescope. He didn't need it to see that Australia was ready to take up arms in the name of freedom and equality.

* * *

Huge speakers, mandatory to very Brazilian plantation, played Tom's interjected address.

"_What do you want? To live on your knees or to die on your feet?"_

There was a short pause, and then a cheer rang out.

"_Libreria! Libreria!" _

The cries resounded over the coffee fields, loud and clear from the house. Percy looked out the window and nodded, approving. The workers of the coffee plantation knew that their employer was an Underground sympathizer; they had loved Marguerite, and he was safe in the aspect that they would not gang up on him. Percy couldn't help but grin his habitual foppish grin. _You waited for this, sweetheart, _he thought, looking at the photograph of him and his beloved on the table. _Now it's here. ___

* * *

The freezing winds of the South Pole blew across the water, chilling Black's lieutenant to the bone as he stood next to his captain. Black didn't seem at all bothered by the cold, except that his match kept going out before he could light his cigar. Finally, he got it as the last of the Danish version of Tom's speech came over the speakers that surrounded Greenland.

It did not take long for the call for freedom to rise in the frozen air. Soon the lieutenant and the rest of the crew were yelling _"Frihed!"_.

Black couldn't help but smile as he puffed away on his cigar. Soon the revolution would begin.

* * *

Mistoffelees sat near the radio, silent as his master listened to Tom.

"_What do you want? To live on your knees or to die on your feet?" _

Nikola nodded his approval, while the cat purred and slinked over to him. He reclined in the comfortable chair that he had behind his desk, in the cocoa plantation that was also a guise for his poisons. When the chanting of _"Vryheid!"_finally reached the study of the house, he nodded and stroked Mistoffelees.

"Time for the revolution to begin," he said absently. "Time for us to call upon the people to defend their right to be free."

Mistoffelees purred.

* * *

(#1) This line is an almost direct quote of Dolores Ibarruri's, a Spanish revolutionary of the twentieth century. 

Just in case you're wondering; "_libert", "libreria", "frihed" _and_ "vryheid" _mean "freedom" in their respective languages.


	18. Chapter 17

**Bloody Griffin: **It's nice to know that you're enjoying Revolution. As a writer, though, I feel a need to defend myself, and my work. You mentioned the dating system I use; this is somewhat controversial, I can understand. In my note in chapter one, I said that my dating system is _similar_ to Mr. Moore's, not exactly the same. Granted, it has some loopholes in it, but it's working for me all fine an' dandy. _The Scarlet Pimpernel _was published in 1913, which would put it in the right timeframe. True, it was set during the French Revolution, which was about two centuries before — but there's something in the upcoming chapters that will explain that. As for Arsène and Sir Henry Curtis; I wanted to use both, but I haven't been able to read King Solomon's Mine or The Arrest of Arsène Lupin — as such, I was afraid that I would write them grossly out of character. And _that _would be an outrage.

* * *

**Revolution  
****Chapter 17**

_Do you hear the people sing?  
Singing a song of angry men?  
It is the music of a people  
Who will not be slaves again!  
When the beating of your heart  
Echoes the beating of the drums  
There is a life about to start  
When tomorrow comes!  
  
Will you join in our crusade?  
Who will be strong and stand with me?  
Beyond the barricade  
Is there a world you long to see?  
Then join in the fight  
That will give you the right to be free!  
  
Do you hear the people sing?  
Singing a song of angry men?  
It is the music of a people  
Who will not be slaves again!  
When the beating of your heart  
Echoes the beating of the drums  
There is a life about to start  
When tomorrow comes!  
  
Will you give all you can give  
So that our banner may advance  
Some will fall and some will live  
Will you stand up and take your chance?  
The blood of the martyrs  
Will water the meadows of France!  
  
Do you hear the people sing?  
Singing a song of angry men?  
It is the music of a people  
Who will not be slaves again!  
When the beating of your heart  
Echoes the beating of the drums  
There is a life about to start  
When tomorrow comes!_

_- "Do You Hear The People Sing?", Les Miserables _

There seemed to be a worldwide roar at Tom's statement; those in the cavern had started cheering, and it had spread past the cavern and into the streets. Or it started in the streets and spread to the cavern, Skinner couldn't be sure. All he knew was that there was cheering and roaring, and he joined in.

Tom motioned for silence, then spoke into the microphone again.

"I will give you one last chance to surrender, Dante," he said forcefully. "Hand over control of the world to the Underground and there will be no fighting. If you do not surrender, the Underground will fight to the very last man to ensure that the world is freed."

There was a pause on the other end, then something that sounded like a growl. The silence in the cavern became thick with tension as the world waited for an answer.

"_Black Duke," _Dante's voice finally came, _"I know where you come from." _Tom's eyes widened at this, and Damon and Skinner glanced at each other. _"A small little town, isn't it? Near the river. St. Petersburg, isn't it?" ___

* * *

Cat Beth Ceky strolled through the streets of St. Petersburg, waving to her friends as she made her way to her home.

Ten years ago, Becky Thatcher had disappeared while doing counter-intelligence for the American government. She was believed dead, probably buried in one of the Second Reich's mass graves. St. Petersburg had grieved, even held a service for her even though there was no body.

Two weeks after the funeral, Cat had arrived, glad that her old self had been buried.

Cat waved to some children. St. Petersburg had been largely untouched by the Great War and the Second Reich; it was too insignificant to care about. Life went on; she lived in the residence of Polly Sawyer, serving as both a tenant and someone to take care of the aging woman. Sidney had left some time ago on a business trip — he was in the timber supply business — and Tom had been killed in the Great War.

Few people actually listened to Dante's speeches, but most of the men were cooped up in Amy Lawrence's home. There came a sudden cheer from within, and Cat just shook her head. _Boys_, she thought. _Always cheering when someone wins the pool match. _

Cat was close to the house when there was a sudden rumbling. Turning, she watched in horror as the houses on the edge of town went up in a ball of flame. She froze in fear; all her Secret Service training left her in one big rush of certainty that this time, she was going to die for good.

The explosions kept on going; deafening roars of fire and booms filled the area as screaming townsfolk ran for their lives.

Somebody was grabbing her arm; Amy.

"Cat! Come on!" Amy was screaming, pulling her by the arm. Snapped out of her reveries, Cat started running. The explosions were coming closer and closer, faster and faster — so that was what the Second Reich officials had been doing the week before, planting bombs! — and the two woman ran for their lives.

People who had not been able to clear the area screamed as the fireballs erupted from the ground. Cat glanced over her shoulder in distress; the explosions were coming closer.

"Amy!" Cat screamed. "We're not going to make it!"

The explosion beneath their feet ensured that they didn't.

* * *

Someone ran up to Joe — it was Nick Carter (#1), visiting from New York's Underground. Nick whispered into his ear a few words, and Joe looked at him.

"Are you sure?" he whispered, pale as a sheet. Nick nodded, and gestured for him to follow. Joe complied, nearly running to the nearest subway entrance. They descended the steps, making their way past the booths and onto the tracks. The station was almost empty, and they were soon inside the abandoned underground train station that served as the American Underground's base of operations.

"_...isn't it?" _Dante's voice over the radio said. The small portable radio sat on the table, near where Joe was staring in disbelief at the lit map on the table.

One way of keeping track of the large cell of the Underground in North America was to plant a beacon in each town and city that had a cell of a certain size. The little red dot that represented St. Petersburg was unlit; the beacon had been destroyed. 

"Send men to check it out," he said hoarsely, terrified of what they might find. "Now. There's another town down the river...get the men from there."

Nick nodded, and dashed off to relay the orders. He was back in less than a minute, and the expression on his face made Joe pale even more. Nick's words confirmed everything.

"I'm sorry."

"_St. Petersburg had just gone up in a fiery explosion,"_ Dante said, and Joe stared at the radio in horror, _"As I'm sure the American Underground will know." _

Joe grabbed a pencil and a piece of paper from the desk, and wrote down a quick message. He shoved it into Nick's hands, ordering him to send the telegram to London.

As Nick ran off to comply again, Joe sank into a chair someone had thoughtfully provided. St. Petersburg was gone and everyone in it. His family, his friends...everyone. Gone.

* * *

In London, the telegram receiver got the message and wrote it down. He handed it to one of the men nearby, who then pushed his way through the crowd surrounding Tom and handed him the message.

Like Joe, Tom paled when he read the message:

FOR BLACK DUKE ONLY STOP ST PETERSBURG DESTROYED STOP DOZENS OF EXPLOSIONS STOP REPORTS CONFIRMED STOP SEARCH TEAMS DISPATCHED STOP NO SURVIVORS EXPECTED STOP

He stared at the paper, then crumpled the message with a grip of iron. He spoke into the microphone again.

"You destroyed a whole town," he said hoarsely, fighting back tears. "And everyone in it." A collective gasp came from all of London. He took a breath, and that fortified him somewhat. "The people will rise. You _will _regret this, I promise you." He gestured at the signal operator to cut the signal, and the man complied.

"Tom — "Damon started, making a move to follow his leader. Tom just shook his head, and Damon backed down.

"I need some time alone," Tom said, head bowed. He held out a hand. "Excuse me." Everyone parted to let him pass; the mood had become melancholy. Even though no-one in the London Underground was from St. Petersburg or America, they all knew the feeling of having lost loved ones.

Skinner watched Tom go. He was painfully reminded how human Tom really was; after all, the reason why the Black Duke did what he did was to free loved ones, not just the world.

As Tom walked off, Skinner watched his friend. The younger man's whole aura radiated extreme sorrow. He was probably fighting tears. The invisible man would let Tom have his quiet time; he deserved as much.

"The poor man," someone to his left said. Turning, Skinner saw Arsène Lupin. "To have lost everyone." 

Skinner nodded, turning back just in time to see the last of Tom enter one of the tents — it was the one that had become a makeshift bedroom for him and the thief. There was just one thing bugging the invisible man.

Would Tom be able to lead the revolution in four days?

* * *

What was left of St. Petersburg was a large dark patch and burning houses. Barnes (#2) carefully made his way through the rubble of the town, calling for survivors.

There was no answer. The only sound was the rush of the river and the calls of the other members of the search party that had been sent to look for survivors — if there were any. It was doubtful; the blasts had been huge, and what structures remained were either on fire or too small to hide even a child.

He had his rifle slung over one arm, just in case any wild animals chose to appear and attack the party.

"Hullo!" he yelled. There was no answer. Barnes felt something brush against his foot; looking down, he quickly turned away. His boots had disturbed a small arm, blown from some young girl's body when the explosion had caught her in its fiery grip of death. He could see the bone, and the wound at one end had cauterized the heat of the explosion.

Barnes looked away, deliberately turning to face the opposite direction. _Damn Dante, _he thought, fist clenched. As a member of the Underground, he had learned of the king's atrocious acts. This only served to compound the fact that Dante was a monster.

Barnes shook his head, trying to clear the unpleasant thoughts. What mattered now was to search for survivors.

He had a feeling in his gut that there would be none.

* * *

(#1) Nick Carter is the creation of John Russell Coryell and Ormond G. Smith, and appeared in the 1886; he is an established detective, master of disguise, the "American Sherlock Holmes".

(#2) Mr. Barnes is Archibald Clavering Gunter's creation. In 1888 he appeared in his first story, _Mr. Barnes of New York_ and then in 1906's _Mr. Barnes, American_. Barnes is a fabulously wealthy orphan, middle-aged and a crack shot. He prefers hunting game to chasing women.

In case you're wondering, 'Cat Beth Ceky' is an anagram for 'Becky Thatcher'.


	19. Chapter 18

This chapter is...really really long. And it has an insane amount of footnotes, so yeah. ;;

I swear, age is catching up with me. I've just found out that I missed three full annotations on the previous two chapters. In Chapter 16, John St. Leger is from _Zalma_. In Chapter 17, Becky Thatcher and Amy Lawrence are creations of Mark Twain's from _The Adventures of Tom Sawyer_.

* * *

**Revolution   
****Chapter 18**

_Sic vis pacum, parabellum.   
If you want peace, prepare for war.   
__- Latin saying_

A collective gasp of horror had run through the group that was gathered in Dante's study. Dante looked smug beyond all reckoning, while Reed seemed pleased with himself.

Personally, Chauvelin didn't know _what _to think or feel. A town had just gone up in massive explosions, and the Black Duke was surely in some kind of daze. The Underground had just suffered a setback — they may very well postpone this revolution they were planning. That brought with it a small sense of triumph.

But the thought of all the innocents who had been there, who had been killed, sickened him. He retained little memory of his childhood, but it was sad to know that a town's worth of children would not have lived past their teens. _It is for the Second Reich, _he reasoned with himself. _It is to stop the revolution that will overthrow the Second Reich. _

In his time as Reed's protégée, Chauvelin had seen acts of cruelty and injustice committed by the Kwaden, Reed, and Dante. Some of them had disturbed him, like when Dante had ordered a shanty town razed — but he had always been able to reason himself, to justify their actions. His conscience was clear; no nightmares disturbed him.

But this was too much. He hid his horror behind a mask of aloofness. _It is for the Second Reich, _he though again. It became a mantra as he tried to fully absorb what had just happened.

It clicked into place; the reason why Reed and Dante had been cooped up in the latter's personal study, why a group of officials from the American department of the Second Reich had been sent to St. Petersburg.

_It is for the Second Reich, _Chauvelin tried to drill into his conscience. He couldn't stop the nagging feeling that it was wrong.

* * *

Skinner pushed away the heavy canvas that served as a door to the tent. Tom sat on his camp bed, head in his hands. 

"Hey," the thief said quietly. Tom didn't reply, just sat there. Skinner entered, conscious of the fact that his friend might not really appreciate his presence. He sat down on his own camp bed, facing the blond American. "How're you holding up?"

_Not good, can't you see that, dimwit? _A voice in his head said. He ignored it and watched Tom. It took the younger man some time before he was able to answer.

"I'll live," he replied hoarsely, looking up. His eyes had a kind of hollowness that Skinner had only seen in people who had just lost their entire family. Which, on reflection, was exactly what had just happened to Tom. A deep grief marred that hollowness, like a streak of black against white.

It was pretty obvious Tom was trying to be brave. He wasn't crying, which was not normal — but he'd had to deal with plenty of grief in his thirty-something years. He couldn't help but think he was a jinx; anyone he formed a bond with would die. First Huck, then Allan; years later, Becky had followed that grisly path. After that, countless others. Now he had lost what had remained of his family and his town.

He was standing at the edge of a very deep and large chasm called despair. In any minute he would topple over, never to climb out again. He both hated and loved Skinner for coming in. He saw the greasepaint face hovering near his through vision blurred with unshed tears. The thief was able to read people better than anyone Tom knew, and he was glad to have a friend like Skinner. _After all, _he thought bitterly. _Doesn't misery love company? _

Tom leaned back, resting his head against a support that held the tent up and closing his eyes. "I just...didn't expect this, y'know?" _I've lost everything you wanted to go back to, _he added mentally. Skinner nodded, sympathetic. He didn't understand and probably never would, but he was making an effort to; for that, Tom was thankful. "I thought St. Petersburg would be safe."

"I don't reckon you're the only one who did," Skinner said gently. "What about that Joe character from the meeting? He's from St. Petersburg too. Don't really think he's doing very well an' good either."

"Yeah."

A comfortable silence reigned between the two; outside, muffled sounds of activity could be heard. Damon's voice floated into the tent, directing the men to prepare the weapons and supplies.

Tom was battling his demons. Skinner could tell as much. It was an open secret amongst the League that Tom blamed himself for Allan's death. They weren't entirely sure if he had gotten over his childhood friend's death. Skinner was no expert in human psychologically, but he knew the horrors of post-war life. He wouldn't be surprised if Tom had lost more friends and family before today.

"Hey, Sawyer..." Skinner started a little hesitantly. "Don't blame yourself. You couldn't have known."

Tom gave a bitter laugh, keeping his eyes closed. "I should have. Dante has his sources; he would've been able to found out sooner or later."

"You couldn't have expected it, Sawyer, admit as much."

"I could have, and I _should_ have," Tom replied, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice. He wasn't successful. "I should have. Everyone..." He swallowed back tears. "Everyone wouldn't have died."

"I should've sent more boats there — more people would've been able to get out before the explosions," he continued. "I should've anticipated this, evacuated the town — I should've known Dante would be able to find out once he'd gotten my name." A dizzying whirlwind of all the possibilities, of all that he could have done, suddenly engulfed him. "I should've told the men there to stop any Second Reich men from entering the town. I should've gotten them to check the ground every day, just in case —"

"Look, Sawyer," Skinner said suddenly, grabbing the American by the shoulders roughly. His eyes flew open and he was startled to see Skinner's face near his. "You can play the 'I should've' game to your heart's content for all I care, but think of the kids! You told me yourself that you fight the Second Reich for the kids out there — all of them, all over the world. You worked years for this revolution. If you're going to give up now, I say you're not good enough to be the Black Duke, hero of the world, of the Underground!"

"Yeah, you've lost everyone you've ever loved," he continued, shaking Tom for emphasis. "But so has half of the Underground. That's why they've all been working for you all these years, because you lead a dream of freedom from Dante and Reed and the Kwaden! If you give up not, you're betraying yourself, them, and the world."

He let go of Tom and stood up, glaring at him. "You make your decision. Will you stay in here and brood like a kicked puppy, or will you go out there and lead the men into glory? It's your choice."

He stalked out of the tent.

* * *

Joe was pale as death; Nick was worried. He had spent time with the American Underground leader, knew that Joe Harper was fiercely proud of his little town in Mississippi. After all, wasn't the Underground's leader Tom Sawyer a St. Petersburgian as well? 

There was silence in the abandoned train station. Everyone felt Joe's loss. The rest of the world knew — America would react with outrage as soon as the shock wore off.

Joe would be a different story. He would react in one of two ways; despair and get all moody and depressed, or be as enraged as the nation he was the leader of. Nick sincerely hoped it would be the second way. Right now, though, he had to snap his friend and chief out of his daze. To accomplish this end, the New York resident pulled out a hip flask. It was full of good old-fashioned Kentucky bourbon — whiskey was hard to come by in the dregs of New York society — and it would help, Nick believed. He gently put in Joe's hands, knowing that Joe hated to be mothered.

"Take it," he said, while using his other hand to shoo the others out of the side room. They began to file out of the room quickly; they understood that the Comte Heliotrope needed time alone. Joe took it, his movements sluggish and slow. "Drink," Nick ordered. "It'll help."

After Joe had finally taken a sip of the bourbon, it seemed that the facts finally sank in. His shoulders sagged even more, and a sob escaped his lips as he covered his face with shaking hands. Nick took the flask from him, quietly corking it and putting it back in his pocket.

"My wife," Joe sobbed, "Oh my god, my wife..."

Nick's heart went out to the young man. Few people outside St. Petersburg had known that Joe Harper and Amy Lawrence were married and had been together for seven years. He had known that Joe was married, though the attractive young man didn't publicize the fact. He and Amy had valued their privacy, not to mention it would have been infinitely more dangerous.

She had stayed in St. Petersburg when he had come to Washington — she was supposed to be safe there, where Dante and Reed couldn't touch her! Joe couldn't believe it; no, he _wouldn't _believe it. His beloved Amy wasn't dead, his mother and father and sister hadn't gone up in flames, the house was still standing, life was perfectly normal in St. Petersburg...

He had no choice but to believe it.

Joe didn't care that he was supposed to be a symbol of strength for the American people. He didn't care that Nick Carter was in the same room, or that revolution had just been declared. He didn't care about the freedom of the world, or the recruiting that he would have to do. All he cared and knew at that moment was his wife and his family was dead and gone. The town he had grown up in and loved with all his heart had just been destroyed entirely.

He felt a strong hand rest on his shoulder. Nick was still around, then, and comforting him. Joe would have to thank him later. He would also have to encourage the people and the members of the Underground, and create drop sites for volunteers to join the Underground. That would all have to wait for later.

Right now, it was his turn to cry.

* * *

Mistoffelees had pounced on a newspaper and was tearing it up into shreds, hissing and growling away. Nikola watched as the front page photograph of the king was mutilated by the angry cat. 

"Calm yourself, Mistoffelees," Nikola said as he pressed his fingertips together. Mistoffelees was doing its mutilation on the floor near the table, and it paid no heed to its master. The radio was switched off, and the cries for liberty had died down from the plantation. Mistoffelees continued its loud hissing, and Nikola hoped that no one chose this time to enter his office. He was quite sure that the cat would attack the poor soul.

Sighing, Nikola took the other newspaper on the table and tossed it to the black cat. It also had the photograph of Dante on its front page, and Mistoffelees gladly attacked this one too, showing its displeasure.

Nikola sat, deep in thought, for a while. Suddenly he got up — so sudden, in fact, that Mistoffelees was startled and hissed at him before going back to tearing up Dante — and walked over to a cupboard to the side of the room. Pulling open a drawer, he removed a case. Returning to the desk, he opened it, pleased to see that he still had a few vials of his most lethal and painful poison left. As if sensing what the doctor had pulled out from the cupboard, Mistoffelees paused in its activities.

"Yes, Mistoffelees," Nikola reassured it, "The best I have." He pulled out the vial of the clear liquid and held it up to the light, examining it. "This is for our good friend the Comte Philippe de Chagny (#1)." Mistoffelees purred, as if not understanding. Nikola raised a brow and looked down at the cat. "Dante's viceroy. He shall pay for the death of the innocents."

Mistoffelees purred, finally sated somewhat. Nikola tossed another newspaper — this one was a local one, and bore the face of the Comte on its cover. Nikola's black cat pounced on this one and proceeded to tear it apart.

* * *

Percy paced furiously in his study. Anthony Dewhurst (#2) sat in the chair on the other side of the desk, watching him. Percy was muttering curses at the Second Reich in general. Suddenly he turned to face his long-time friend. 

"Sink me, Tony," Percy suddenly said, "Sink me! Our _second_ revolution —"

"Third," Tony corrected. "Industrial revolution."

"— our _third _revolution and this is the first time anyone has done something like this!" Percy finished, plopping his large frame into the chair. "Even the _French _didn't do something so...so _barbaric _back then!"

Percy had been around since the French Revolution back in 1789. Tony and Marguerite had been too. When everyone else had turned gray and had passed on — Tony, Percy and Marguerite had not. More than two centuries later, none of them knew why or how; they just were immortal, or so it seemed. Marguerite had died when the guillotine had sliced her head clean off; only violence could kill them. Yes, they could be hurt — but if they were left alone, they could live forever.

"Don't forget," Tony pointed out, "Dante wasn't around during the French revolution." Percy glared at his friend from his chair, and Tony raised his hands in a 'don't-shoot-me' gesture.

"The bastard," Percy said. "He blew up an entire town. Imagine, all the kids there...the bastard."

Tony ran a hand through his thick, brown hair. Anthony Dewhurst — or Tony, as Percy always called him — was one of the sons of the Duke of Exeter two centuries ago. Tony was an ex-Lord; he dropped the title when he made his disappearance with Percy in the mid-1800s. He, like Percy, was tall and broad of shoulders; the two shared plenty in common, and that included the loud laughter and merry face. Whether by birth or by upbringing, Tony was a very courteous man. Marguerite had, over the course of two hundred years, commented how impressed she was by it. Her husband had to keep up the appearance of a nincompoop, and it was always Tony who had to act as the well-bred right-in-the-head one.

Right hand man to Percy, Tony was a well-known face in the South American Underground. He and the new members of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel had been training farmers how to wield swords, fire and load guns and the like. Percy's plantation was a cover for the operations that went on at night, in addition to being a major source of funding for the Underground's cells in Brazil.

Percy got up again, frustrated and horrified. Marguerite, god bless her soul, would be all for charging into Dante's Brazilian government office and killing everyone there. Percy, on the other hand, knew that the revolution would be put at serious risk if he did that. Reluctantly, he decided not to storm into the office and killing everyone.

"War begins in four days, Percy. You can get back at the Second Reich then," Tony said, watching as his friend paced furiously up and down the room.

"Ay," Percy agreed, stopping at the window and looking to the city, just two miles away from the plantation. "In four days, Hélène (#3) shall regret she ever joined the Second Reich."

* * *

Sue had nearly dropped her cigarette when the news of St. Petersburg's destruction reached her in the form of a gray carrier pigeon that landed on her windowsill. She held the piece of paper over the flickering candle flame and watched as it burned to ashes. 

She dropped the harmless remnants of the message into the waste bin next to her desk. The pigeon had flown off earlier with her reply that she had received the message. The daughter of the world's best criminal mind exited the study, which adjoined to her bedroom, and went over to one of the lacquer cupboards near the fine bed. The lacquer cupboard was large enough to hide a man. Made up of five levels — four pull-out drawers and one large compartment for clothes — it stood at almost six feet. The beautiful woman seemed to know exactly what she wanted, and pulled open the topmost drawer.

In it were fans; some were made of delicate paper, with Chinese poetry from the dynasties written in precise calligraphy; others had seen masterful strokes of a brush, leading to a picturesque landscape of the Chinese countryside. There were others similar to the European fans made of cloth or lace — there was even one with precious jewels set in it. Sue had dozens; they were all placed lovingly on some of the finest silk in the country.

Sue knew everything there was to know about fans; she could do the fan signals as well as any Victorian woman of good birth could. As a child she had been tutored in European deportment, partially because of her Russian mother's wishes. Fu Manchu despised everything of the West — her mother had begged, and he had given in.

Her mesmerizing green eyes glanced at each before they found the fan in question. A small smile came to her lips as she picked up the delicate lace fan. It was a shade of midnight blue, so dark it was almost black. The curious thing about it was that it had silver spikes at the edge of each rib. Sue opened the fan with a skill earned by years of practice, her long, ivory fingers handling the deadly weapon with a mastery only a woman could acquire. The soft whizzing sound of its opening the only noise in the chamber.

The deadly steel spikes gleamed in the candle-light. Their sharpened tips would slice through any throat with ease.

Very soon, General Fang (#4) would be at the receiving end of Sue's wrath.

* * *

Ahab's eyes narrowed in anger. From within the ship, his first mate came out, eyes blazing with fury. "Captain —" 

Ahab held a hand out to stop him. "I know, Jack (#5), I know. And I would storm the office too, but now is not the time." Broad Arrow Jack opened his mouth to speak again, but Ahab silenced him with a look. "I understand, but not now. We will wait until the revolution."

The fiery young man stopped, and instead came to stand beside his captain. "Captain, when will the revolution start? It's been ten years already, yet..." He trailed off, afraid he had gone too far.

Ahab didn't say anything, just looked out at Melbourne. The cries for freedom had died down, and everyone was now shock-still with the news of St. Petersburg's destruction. He pointed at a flag mast off in the distance, where the black and white dragon flag of the Second Reich waved in the wind. "Do you see that flag over there, Jack?"

The other man squinted; he could see it clearly enough. "Yes."

"In four days, that flag will no longer fly." He glanced sideways at the young and eager man. "In four days, I will personally go there and pull that flag down."

* * *

AJ was furious. He had grabbed his bag and stalked off — he needed to get back to the Underground's French headquarters under the Opera. He was carrying a few small boxes of gunpowder for the muskets Erik (#6) had managed to acquire during his absence. 

He hurried through the empty Opera house — it was early afternoon and ballet rehearsals didn't start until four — hoping that the heavens would strike down the Duke (#7) with lighting, hail, a falling flower pot, or something equally as bad.

He passed the dressing rooms that belonged to Carlotta (#8), the Opera's star attraction — and pain in the neck — he stopped. Within, a group of the French Underground's more religious members had gathered there and had formed a prayer circle.

They held crosses in their hands, and one of them was praying in French. AJ's fury subsided — they were praying for any survivors, though it was unlikely there were any, and for the grace of God for the residents of the town who had not been there.

It was depressing; soon news would come in that no survivors had been found and the tears and prayers would start all over again. AJ started on his journeey again, but with a muted step. His rage had vanished totally; while there was still anger at the Second Reich and Dante in general, it was much less than what he had experienced earlier.

He moved further down into the cellars, and within a few minutes he found himself on one of the banks of the lake under the Opera. He waved, and the boatman pushed off from the other side. As he waited, he reflected, trying to think of what he could do to avenge the innocents who died in America.

He would have to ask for suggestions – probably from Erik or the Persian _daroga_ (#9) with whom the Opera Ghost seemed to have a strained relationship with. Perhaps both. Just then, the boat touched the shore. AJ boarded, careful not to let the bag touch the water, and sat. The boatman, an aging Frenchman, pushed off the bank. As he rowed, he spoke to AJ.

"M'sieur Chrome," he said, using AJ's alias, "You heard the king's announcement?" At AJ's nod, he continued. "M'sieur, we _must_ get back at the Second Reich. It is only right that we blow up something of theirs —"

The Underground leader shook his head. "No." They were nearing the other shore. "We wait, my good man, until the day of the revolution."

"Will it be soon, m'sieur?" the man asked eagerly as they touched shore. "Since the Black Duke said over the radio for the men to come out."

"Oh, very near," AJ nodded again. He stood up and stepped onto solid ground. "Very near." He paused. "What is your name, monsieur?"

"Roland Napoleon Bonaparte (#10), m'sieur."

AJ raised a brow. "Bonaparte?"

"Grand nephew of the man himself." Roland beamed. The other man nodded.

"I'll remember you, monsieur Bonaparte," AJ said, lingering near the water's edge. "Trust me, when I get rid of Dante's man in Paris, the Vicomte Alanbrooke (#11), you shall be among the first to know."

* * *

Black glowered. He peered through his telescope and saw Second Reich's flag whipping around in the frozen South Pole winds. He was sorely tempted to get his crew to destroy the flagpole that held it up, but knew now was the time for prudence. Beside him, his lieutenant swore in French. 

"The beast," Raoul de Chagny (#12) said through clenched teeth — the youth Frenchmen always did have a problem with Greenland's climate. "Captain, Black Michael (#13) _must _pay for this. Let me take a few men, we'll go in and be out within a quarter of an hour."

Black lowered his telescope and raised a brow. "Go in where and do _what?" _

"Go into Black Michael's office, of course," Raoul answered. "And kill him."

Black scowled at his first mate. "No. You will do no such thing." Raoul opened his mouth to protest, but Black's scowl deepened. "I know you want to go back to France, Raoul, but you won't rush; not now, not ever. The revolution comes soon. _Then_ you can kill Black Michael."

Raoul kept quiet; he knew his captain had more sense in him that he himself could probably ever get. He would wait. But when the revolution came, he swore to himself that Black Michael would die, and die horribly.

* * *

Robur crossed himself. By nature he wasn't a very religious man, but the lost town deserved his prayers. He stood up and crossed the room, opening the door and leaving his library-cum-study. His dark eyes blazed with a fury he hadn't felt in quite awhile, one that was quite rare to his calm and collected self. 

Dante would pay. Kurtz, Dante's Russian viceroy, (#14) would pay.

He walked through his apartment in Moscow; he would have to get into contact with the _Albatross. _The Indian Nemo had given him some interesting ideas for armory while in London, and Robur had been able to modify one of his inventor's armor to suit the design specs that Nemo had given him. Phileas (#15) hadn't been too happy about that, but he couldn't deny that they would, in theory, hold up against the Second Reich's Aerial Attack Force better.

He entered a small side-room; its door was hidden behind a very large painting of Catherine the Great. Shutting the door quietly behind him, he then sat down in the chair that was one of the sole pieces of furniture in the room.

The other was a table. It had two sets of telegraph apparatus on it; one was wired directly to the _Albatross, _another to the secret base of the Russian Underground. Now, he went for the second one. He sent out a quick message, checking the status of the installation of the armor. The answer came soon enough; it was proceeding very well, and he imagined he could hear Phileas nagging at the engineers.

He sent back a message, telling the engineers in the base to hurry. A whole fleet needed their armor installed by Sunday morning.

Robur promised himself that the airship that held Kurtz on it would be the first to be destroyed.

* * *

A quarter of an hour had passed since his talk with Tom, and he wondered whether he would do the right thing. Mina and Jekyll had arrived ten minutes ago, and Skinner was talking to the concerned two when the tent flap was pushed aside. 

Tom came outside. A hush came over the other League members when the revolutionary approached them.

"I've made my choice," he told them, looking Skinner in the eye. His voice was strong, with a stronger resolution that Skinner had ever heard from him before.

"The revolution will go on."

* * *

(#1) Philippe is Raoul's brother from _Phantom of the Opera _by Gaston Leroux, which was published in 1911. 

(#2) Lord Anthony Dewhurst appeared in _The Scarlet Pimpernel_. He is a member of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel, and one of Percy's most trusted associates.

(#3) Hélène is the daughter of Fantômas, the Genius of Evil. Fantômas was created by Pierre Souvestre and Marcel Allain for monthly stories that appeared in 1911. Hélène is a smoker of opium, and who dresses up in men's clothes and wears a death's-head tattoo. She's also her father's partner-in-crime, so to speak.

(#4) General Fang is from the 2004 movie adaptation of Jules Verne's _Around the World in 80 Days_.

(#5) Broad Arrow Jack (real name John Ashleigh) was created by E. Harcourt Burrage in a penny dreadful published in 1866. Jack is a young Englishman fallen on hard times in Australia who becomes the outlaw Broad Arrow Jack, called so because of the arrow brand on his back. The novel ends with Jack married to an aristocrat somewhere in England.

(#6) Erik (alias the Phantom of the Opera alias the Opera Ghost) is, again, from _The Phantom of the Opera_.

(#7) The Duke was in the 2001 movie _Moulin Rouge!. _Enough said.

(#8) Carlotta, of _The Phantom of the Opera_, is the Opera's star.

(#9) The _daroga _— Persian for 'chief of police' — is also from _The Phantom of the Opera_. He had saved Erik's life in Persia before, but later in the events of the novel he plays a part in Raoul's finding out of the Phantom's hideout.

(#10) Roland Napoleon Bonaparte (1858-1924) was a real person. He was the son of Napoleon's nephew's, which made him a grand-nephew, I think.

(#11) The Viscount Alanbrooke really existed. Born in 1883 as Alan Francis Brooke to a prominent North Irish family, he was educated in France and also in the Royal Military College in Woolwich, England. He served with the Royal Artillery in France during World War 1.

(#12) Raoul de Chagny is one of the main characters of Gaston Leroux's _Phantom of the Opera _(1911). He is a sailor and a patron of the Paris Opéra.

(#13) "Black Michael" is the wicked Duke of Strelsau, Ruritania, which was created by Anthony Hope Hawkins for 1894's _The Prisoner of Zenda._

(#14) Kurtz, of Joseph Conrad's _Heart of Darkness _(1899), is the agent for a company of ivory traders; he is corrupted by the power he gains over the natives of the Belgian Congo.

(#15) Jules Verne created Phileas Fogg, the star of _Around The World in Eighty Days, _1873. Need I say more?


	20. Chapter 19

**Revolution   
****Chapter 19**

_David walked into the valley   
with a stone clenched in his hand   
he was only a boy, but he knew   
someone must take a stand _

There will always be a valley   
always mountains one must scale   
There will always be perilous waters   
Which someone must sail!

Into valleys, into waters,   
Into storms that rip the night!   
Don't give in, don't give up   
But give thanks for the glorious fight!

You can tremble, you can fear it,   
But keep your fighting spirit alive, boys!   
Let the shiver of it sting you!   
Fling into battle! Spring to your feet, boys!

Never hold back your step for a moment!   
Never doubt that your courage will grow!   
Hold you head even higher   
And into the fire we go!

Are there mountains that surround us?   
Are there walls that block the way?   
Knock them down, strip them back, boys,   
And forward and into the fray!

Into terror, into valor,   
Charge ahead - no, never turn!   
Yes, it's into the fire we fly   
And the devil will burn!

Someone has to face the valley   
Rush in! We have to rally   
And win, boys!   
_   
When the world is saying not to,   
By God, you know you've got to   
March on, boys! _

Never hold back your step for a moment!   
Never doubt that your courage will grow!   
Hold your head even higher   
And into the fire we go!

Let the lightning strike!   
Let the flash of it shock you!   
Choke your fears away -   
Pull as tight as a wire!   
Let the fever spike!   
Let the force of it rock you!   
We will have our day,   
Sailing into the fire!

Someone has to face the valley!   
Rush in! We have to rally   
And win, boys!   
When the world is saying not to,   
By God, you know you've got to   
March on, boys!

Never hold back your step for a moment!   
Look alive! Oh, your courage will grow!   
Yes, it's higher and higher   
And into the fire we go!   
Into fire!   
Onward ho!

_- "Into the Fire", The Scarlet Pimpernel _

"About time you stopped brooding," Damon said from behind Skinner. The invisible man gave a surprised yelp and started. Jekyll and Mina looked at him as if he was crazy.

"Don't tell me you knew he was standing behind me," Skinner shot back at them. Jekyll shrugged under his coat; Hyde had known. Mina had sensed his presence long before he had come to stand behind Skinner.

Tom laughed. Inwardly, Skinner beamed — he was laughing, and that was a good sign. Damon grinned.

"Sorry," he apologized, but something about his manner told Skinner he didn't really mean it. Skinner made a noise somewhere between acceptance and indigence.

Damon smiled. _Tom's certainly got a good set of friends with him, _he thought. He was glad for that; the Underground leader would need all the help he could get, if Blake's latest information was correct.

"Good to see you're alright, Tom," Jekyll said kindly. "From What Skinner was telling us, you..." _Shut up, worm, _Hyde boomed. _Can't you see he doesn't want to be reminded? _It was true; the expression that came over Tom's face was not unlike the one that Nemo had given Jekyll ten years ago, on board the grand Nautilus.

Damon raised the sheaf of papers he held and gestured to the side. Tom got the hint, and excused himself from the League's conversation.

"What is it?" Tom asked, glancing at the papers with concern.

"Latest report from Blake," Damon informed him. "It's an update on security for Dante's celebration. It says here that the Kwaden are going to be heavily armed. Reed too, maybe even Dante."

Tom nodded. "What about Zalma's procession? How's it going to be like?"

"Guarded, but not the same as Dante's, not by the long shot. Probably a few guards by the side, keeping the crowd at bay, that sort of thing."

"That's when we strike," Tom said decisively. "How are the building of the barricades coming along?"

"I have yet to get Arsène's report; I put him in charge of the salvage teams. They just left. I told him to send me hourly reports."

"Good." Tom paused. "Could you get me linked up with the rest of the world in a radio broadcast, like the one we had just now?"

Damon nodded. "I think I could get one of our men too, certainly. When do you need it?"

"Sunday."

One of Damon's brows shot up. "What do you need a worldwide radio broadcast on the day of the revolution for?"

"Well, since we're going to war, I think we should declare it."

* * *

Jekyll watched Tom from the corner of one eye. He seemed alright, if a bit pale; Skinner's description of his reaction to the destruction of his hometown had been a cause for extreme worry. 

The gentle doctor knew of Tom's sometimes self-destructive personality. Ten years ago, he had blamed himself for Allan Quatermain's death. The League had stopped him before he had plunged too deep into that spiral of desolation by keeping him occupied — it had been a close call even then.

Skinner had single-handedly managed to pull Tom out of his despair. It was almost extraordinary enough to be warranted a miracle.

Then again, perhaps it had been of Tom's own doing that he wasn't in that tent, thinking of all the possibilities that might have led to St. Petersburg's survival. He may have snapped out of it, later on — maybe a few hours, maybe a few days. Maybe Skinner had just pushed the process along, or maybe he had initiated it.

_So many maybes, _Jekyll sighed inwardly.

_Ay, _Hyde boomed back. _But there'll be less of those when you let me out and I get to kill something — _

_Shut up, _Jekyll said forcefully. He would not have Hyde running loose in his mind again; since 1899 he had tried, tried so hard to repress the beast, but he wasn't successful until recently.

_**You **shut up, worm, I'm the one —_

"Shut up," Jekyll gritted through clenched teeth. Mina and Skinner stopped talking, and they looked at him oddly. Jekyll felt himself flushing; he'd made a fool of himself.

The vampire touched his arm lightly. "Dr. Jekyll...? Are you alright?"

Jekyll shook his head, trying to make his thoughts his own again. Hyde seemed to have retreated into a part of his consciousness which he was unaware even existed, and Jekyll was glad for that. His hands trembled, because he held his top hat, and that was shaking; Skinner was avoiding looking at it for that reason.

"I'm perfectly fine, Mrs. Harker," Jekyll gave her a shaky smile. "If you'll excuse me, I think I'll go and check on Owen." He nodded towards one of the entrances to the cavern, where Owen and his ragtag group of children had just entered. They were grinning and dirtier than usual; Skinner thought they'd probably been up to some mischief.

Invisible thief and vampire watched as the tortured doctor headed over to the group of children; they saw him and waved. Many a "Dr. J!" floated across the Underground headquarters.

"Reckon Hyde's still in there?" Skinner asked Mina. She sighed.

"Most likely."

"All these years he's been living with Hyde in 'is head," Skinner commented. "How come the man's not insane yet?"

"Dr. Jekyll has a stronger will than he lets on," Mina said wisely. "I believe he has had Hyde under control for some time. I do not recall reports of a large monkey or beast prowling the streets of London."

"Did you even think he survived the war, Mina?"

"Yes." She turned her keen green eyes to him. "For a man who disappeared years ago, Skinner, you ask many questions."

Skinner gave a snort. "Very funny. 'sides, I'm not the only one who disappeared when war broke out." He cast a sidelong glance that was full of meaning her way. "Others did, too."

Mina turned her gaze away to look at Owen, who was struggling to get away from Jekyll. Obviously he thought he was alright and recovering well from that bullet wound. "I had my reasons. We all did."

Skinner paused. Mina noted with some satisfaction that he was turning that over in his mind. They _did _all have their reasons. Keeping their heads safe from Dante was one of them. The only thing that bothered her was the question of whether their heads would be safe if the revolution was suppressed.

* * *

Jekyll finally caught Owen and pulled the whining child to the hospital tent. 

"I swear, I'll be alright," Owen was saying as he was dragged by the collar. "'tis just a little wound, no harm done, honest, Dr. J, I've been through worse —"

"Owen, we are checking your injury," Jekyll said firmly. "No arguments. I need to stop any infection before it sets in."

"But, Dr. J —" Owen whined.

"No arguments," Jekyll cut him off, finally getting him into the tent. Damon and Tom looked at each other and laughed. That was typical of Owen to insist everything was otherwise than it was.

Tom felt a tugging at his leg. He and Damon looked down, and bright blue eyes looked up at him. It was one of Owen's 'babies', as he affectionately called the kids he took care of. The girl was about Owen's age. She had red hair, but most of it was so dirty it had turned black.

Tom went down on one knee so that they were at eye-level. "Hey. What's your name?"

"Anne Shirley (#1)," she said shyly. She dug around in a pocket of the oversized coat she wore. Tom watched and Damon's curious gaze followed her hand. Finally, Anne pulled out a small horseshoe. Smiling, she pulled one of Tom's palms open and put the horseshoe in his palm.

Tom didn't know what to say. The street kids had just given him a lucky charm. He looked down at the lucky charm, then back up at Anne, then at the shuffling street kids behind her. They were all so young, so innocent. And dirty, but that could be ignored.

Black, white, Asian, it didn't matter. Children of every age and race stood together in the cavern, side by side. The little ones held the hands of the older ones; Jimmy Grey had two five-year-olds on either side of him. The Cannon Street boys had also joined up with Owen's own large group, so now the children's number had significantly increased in size.

Tom suddenly realized that the future of all the children depended on him. They stood there, watching him. Anne had been sent to give him their hopes, their dreams — he had promised a better life for the people, but he had left the children out of the picture. He felt guilty for that.

Closing his palm around the horseshoe, Tom nodded. "Thank you."

Anne nodded again, giving him her bright smile before hopping back to the rest of the children, taking one of the five year olds from Jimmy.

Tom stood up, deeply moved. Damon regarded him with some mirth. "Please tell me you're not going to bring that around with you."

Tom looked at him, then back down at the horseshoe. "It's a good luck charm." He dropped it into one of his jacket's pockets. "And I'm going to need all the good luck I can get."

* * *

(#1) Anne Shirley was the redheaded orphan from LM Montgomery's book, _Anne of Green Gables, _published in 1908. 


	21. Chapter 20

**Revolution  
****Chapter 20 **

_The time is near  
So near, it's stirring the blood in their veins!  
And yet beware  
Don't let the wine go to your brains!  
For the army we fight is a dangerous foe  
With the men and the arms that we never can match  
It is easy to sit here and swat 'em like flies  
But the national guard will be harder to catch.  
We need a sign  
To rally the people  
To call them to arms  
To bring them in line...! _

It is time for us all  
To decide who we are  
Do we fight for the right  
To a night at the opera now?  
Have you asked of yourselves  
What's the price you might pay?  
Is it simply a game  
For rich young boys to play?  
The color of the world  
Is changing day by day...

Red - the blood of angry men!  
Black - the dark of ages past!  
Red - a world about to dawn!  
Black - the night that ends at last!

_- "Red and Black", Les Miserables _

Dante had his face buried in his hands. A splitting headache plagued him, no doubt from the beast that resided somewhere in his consciousness.

They came suddenly and often; there were times, in the first few months after taking that formula in Mongolia, when he couldn't get out of bed at all. Now he had them under control, although they could get very painful sometimes.

His cure for them was a good dose of laudanum. His trusty bottle of the painkiller sat on his table. He was alone in his study; the rest of his ministers had run off to the tailors to get grand new suits for the upcoming anniversary of the Second Reich. Reed was with Chauvelin, and they were briefing the Kwaden and guards as to the security measures that would be in place on the historic day.

_Ten years, _Dante thought to himself. _Ten years ago I set out on this quest for revenge. I **nearly **got one of the damnable League – but they rallied together, saved the American. _

He cursed them in German and English. _Damn them, _he thought. Looking up, the pain from his migraine finally fading away, he saw the flag of the vast empire he had created hanging above the door.

The menacing dragon, set on black, stared back at him. Its talons were showing, sharp and deadly. The dragon Reed had suggested be used was of Oriental design; long and snake-like, it represented power and authority in China. In its many dynasties, the dragon had been used as the Emperor's symbol of power.

He liked it that way. The people of the world needed to know who was in charge. He, Dante, was king of the world. Power and strength were what he wielded, not to mention the Kwaden, Reed, and some fiercely loyal subjects — namely, the lords and ladies of Court. They would do anything to preserve their lifestyle of extravagance.

There was a knock at the door, and a familiar "Sir?". Replacing the bottle of laudanum back in the desk drawer, he called the affirmative for Chauvelin to open the door.

Bowing, the young Frenchman entered, followed closely by Reed, who said, "Security's all arranged for Sunday, Dante. Your parade shall be guarded with Kwaden and Scotland Yard men." Dante nodded.

As Reed proceeded to brief Dante on the security measures that would be in place during Sunday's celebrations, Chauvelin stood by the door like a guard, unseen and unheard. Presently there was a knock, and he opened the door a fraction and stuck his head outside.

Drawing his head back into the room, he cleared his throat. When Reed and Dante finally looked at him, he said, "Sirs, the tailor is here to see to the fitting of His Majesty's suit for the anniversary celebrations."

Dante gave a barely-audible groan. He despised the tailor, but it was a necessity. "Bring him in."

As the tailor and his assistants shuffled it and brought into the room dozens of bric-a-brac that had to do with the grand suit that Dante would wear for the tenth year of his empire, the king couldn't suppress a small smile.

It had taken much, but this grand parade would be significant in more ways that one. It proved that he had managed to keep the Underground under control for almost a decade, and that felt good.

* * *

Meanwhile, under London's streets, the Underground headquarters was almost chaotic. 

Everything was being packed into boxes and cartons, and under the cover of night brought to what Tom called the Underground's 'battle command center'.

Instead of Damon, Skinner stood by Tom as the American directed the men, pointing to places on the large map of London that was spread over the meeting table.

"Mrs. Harker," Tom said, sounding like a true leader, "You and your group will move the gunpowder here." He used a finger to trace a road that lead to Newington. "Bring it across the river. The owner of the house we'll be storing it in will meet you along this road and bring you there." At the vampire's nod, he continued. "Arsène, the guns go to the command center." He turned to Jekyll. "Dr. Jekyll, we've arranged to get Dr. John Steward (#1) to hoard some of our medicine supplies for us."

"Dr. Steward? Of the asylum?" Jekyll asked.

Tom nodded. "Same one. He'll meet you there, and you'll have to pass to him one of the crates. The men know which one. Captain, we'll need your men to join Damon in the new cavern to help set it up."

Nemo nodded. "My first mate is under orders to assist in anyway possible."

"Thank you," Tom said briskly. "Orlando" — the rich immortal inclined his head slightly; his finery was at odds with the plain clothes of the others — "You're going to have to guide the food crates through High End's backstreets." Before Orlando could acknowledge his orders, Tom turned to the wizened Sam Pak. "Sam, the ammunition will have to pass through Limehouse."

The old man, his hands hidden in his enormous sleeves, gave a low bow. "The men stand at ready."

Tom gave the old Mandarin a grateful nod. "You have my sincerest thanks, Sam. Owen!"

"At yer s'rvice," the boy in question said as he came racing through the flap of the tent.

"You and the rest of the kids are going to join up with Blake and his men," he said, nodding at the middle-aged Scotland Yard detective. "How many kids do you have with you now?"

Owen paused. "Thirty, maybe more. I can get the Jimmy Grey and his Cannon Street boys, our number'll be forty or so."

"Go get them," Tom ordered. Owen ran out again. "As soon as they get here, Blake, I want two kids to each of your men. Walk the streets. Be our patrol. The minute you see any Second Reich, send one of the children here, another to the closest group that's moving to warn them. Stay hidden, or act as if everything's normal. Do not move again until they're out of the way." Blake acknowledged this with a gruff nod.

"Alright," Tom looked at all present and nodded. "Off to your posts. We have to move as fast as we can. Blake, wait for the kids. They'll be here as fast as Owen can get them." All of the present nodded and left the tent. It didn't take long for Blake's voice to ring out among the men and women, calling for all the security men. Tom began to roll up the map on the table, and Skinner helped him get the other various documents that Damon hadn't brought with him to the other side of the river. Once they were packed, they would join the others in the new command center.

"So, Sawyer," Skinner said as he picked up another file, "What's the plan?"

"Didn't I tell you?"

Skinner shook his head. Tom took a few files from him. "Sorry. Guess I got caught up in all that's going on," he said, smiling apologetically. They headed to the flap of the tent. "See, right now we're located underneath Whitechapel." They passed Blake, who nodded a greeting, just as Owen and Jimmy Grey squeezed their way through a group of women carrying blankets. "We're moving to the middle of Vauxhall."

"Vauxhall?" Skinner asked, bringing himself up short as a rabble of young kids ran across his path. "Why Vauxhall?"

"It's across the river," Tom explained. "We'll be able to defend ourselves if Dante tries to attack us from there."

"What happens to this place, then?" Skinner asked.

"We'll be keeping things here, but only what we need. Two tents, maybe three, a radio, a map, that kind of thing."

Skinner dodged a puddle of murky water as they walked through the underground network of sewers. "What're you goin' to use this one for? After all, everything's bein' moved."

"You'll see" was all Tom said.

* * *

Nemo directed a group of his men over to where Damon was helping some of the men set up a tent. The efficient Indian men immediately took over the spreading of the heavy canvas from some of those who had been struggling with it. 

The stoic Indian captain found it almost amusing that he was actually helping the English stage a revolution. Had anyone told him ten years ago that he would be helping his sworn enemies in a battle to the death, he would have scoffed at the idea. Im helping the English was a laughable concept, at best. Then again, ten years ago he hadn't counted on joining the League on a mission to save the world.

Lots of things had changed since then, himself included. India had tried her best to resist Dante's forces, but like the rest of the world she had fallen. Unpleasant memories had been brought back by that fight; his wife and children killed, and his subsequent abandoning of the name Dakkar and the identity that came with it. Nemo was no-one, literally.

Now there was another revolution to begin; another fight to take part in. He was confident his men would follow him unto the death; after all, hadn't the late Ishmael said a long that ago, that once a person had served on Nemo's vessel for any length of time, death took on a whole new meaning?

Nemo sighed. He had lost much in his sixty-plus years. Had seen much too, but lost so much more; his family, his friends, his first mate. Only India's freedom had kept him going all these years. He loved his mother country dearly.

He had no qualms about charging into this fight head-on. None at all. As long as India's own flag could fly high, he would risk anything.

Mina led her group across the bridge, eyes peeled for any sign of movement. There was another man who was at the front with her, and he held a lantern. Mina relied more on her supernatural senses than the feeble light cast on the street. She was jumpy, almost insanely so.

There was a long line of people stretched out behind her, two to each box of gunpowder. They were careful not to let the box touch the damp ground of the streets. A thunderstorm had just passed — Mina had heard it from underground — and she tread carefully, afraid of falling.

There was sudden movement in the alley that they had been passing. Mina tensed. Red bled into her eyes and her canines elongated. Quietly she snuck away from the convoy lest the other man realized she was gone. Quickly, she leapt into the alley, seizing whoever it was by the throat.

There was a squeal of terror, and then Mina found two large, frightened eyes looking up into her face.

"P-please don't hurt me," the kid said, shaking all over. "P-please, I'm j-just out s-selling matches..."

Mina let go of the girl as her eyes returned to their normal green. The little girl scuttled away until her back rested against the brick wall of the alley. No doubt she had been out selling her matches when she had heard the procession coming along.

"Why did you hide?" Mina demanded. She cowered.

"I...I thought you were a b-bobbie." Her voice shook; she was very scared of this strong woman with red eyes. Also, she was afraid that she would be reported to Scotland Yard; selling anything not approved by the Second Reich was illegal and punishable by jail time or death, depending on what goods were peddled. Her matchboxes didn't bear the approval seal. "P-please, I have a li'l brother..."

Mina sighed. She was sorry she had scared the girl. Kneeling down and trying to be as motherly as possible, she extracted twenty pounds from a pocket. "Here," she said, placing it in the hand of the shaking child. After staring at the money, the girl offered Mina the whole tray of matchboxes she held. There were about fifty of them in total, a penny apiece.

The vampire shook her head. "Save them for some other night. Now go home. You didn't see any of this."

"See anything? What did I see?" the girl asked, looking at her in a puzzled way. From the glint in her eye, though, Mina could tell the girl understood. Mina nodded, and she ran off.

Watching her retreating form until she disappeared from view, Mina went back to join the moving convoy. They had passed during her exchange with the girl. It didn't take her long to join the lantern-bearer in front again.

Yes, Mina was being too jumpy this night.

* * *

(#1) Dr. John Steward was of Bram Stoker's _Dracula, _published 1898. He owns the Carfax asylum. 


	22. Chapter 21

It's been drawn to my attention that I made a pretty serious mistake in the last chapter, aheh…-apologetically- it seems that my copy of Dracula typo-ed Dr. John "Jack" Seward's name throughout the whole book, if that's possible. -.-

* * *

**Revolution  
****Chapter 21**

_One more day before the storm!  
At the barricades of freedom!  
__When our ranks begin to form  
__Will you take a place with me?  
_

_One day to a new beginning  
(Raise the flag of freedom high)  
__Every man will be a king  
(Every man will be a king)  
__There's a new world for the winning  
(There's a new world to be won)  
__Do you hear the people sing?_

_My place is here  
__I fight with you...!_

_One more day to revolution  
__We will nip it in the bud  
__We'll be ready for these schoolboys_

_Tomorrow is the judgement day!_

_Tomorrow we'll discover  
What our God in heaven has in store  
One more dawn!  
One more day!  
One day more!_

_- "One Day More", Les Miserables_

"Everyone take as many as ye can carry," Owen told his brood as he handed out the rocks to the kids that were gathered around him. All the children were gathered in a corner of the new battle command center.

Jimmy Grey stood next to him, counting the number of leather slings he had. "'oo needs the slings? Raise up ye hand." Several hands appeared in the air, and he handed out the slingshots. "Two to each, mind, one big one and one small one."

Closer to the center of the cavern, women young and old were stirring soups and stews — dinner for the Underground members. There were some who were filling empty bullet casings with gunpowder. They were seated along a production line of sorts, with a man at the start of the line creating the cases with a mould and liquid silver in a pot.

Men were cleaning their guns and rifles as they gathered close to the large fire that burned in the very center of the Underground headquarters. They were of all walks of life — some were artisans, others dock workers, and then still some more from the factories. In any other kind of circumstance, seeing a noble's son sitting next to a common dock worker would be unlikely, if not outright impossible. In the impending revolution, however, circumstances demanded some arrangements that would have been considered outrageous.

There were others who were working on muzzle-loading cannons that the Underground had managed to acquire. Five had been saved from being melted down to metal for some of the advanced weaponry that Dante had used in the Great War. A crew of five men would be needed to operate cannon, and some of the veterans of England's earlier wars were teaching members of their soon-to-be crew how to load the cannonballs.

The many tents that defined the "offices" of the Underground sat on elevated areas of the cavern. At the time of the Great War, this railway station had been abandoned half-way through construction, thus leaving it half excavated. A steep slope had been left, but the navvies (#1) had created terraces, where the tents had been set up. They overlooked the buzz of activity that was going on in the lowest level of the subterranean base of operations. A crude flight of stairs cut into the side provided access to all five levels.

There were people moving up and down the stairs, entering and leaving tents. They held documents and maps, each carrying their own important message. Arsène occupied a tent on the lowest level on the terrace steps, co-ordinating with the members of the London underworld.

His couriers ran up with a folder to the top level, quickly entering a tent two levels up. Within, Dr. Jekyll was talking to other doctors, including his friend John Seward. The courier passed it to the gentle doctor, who nodded his thanks. He handed the courier another folder, and the courier was rushing up to the top of the terrace steps.

Pushing his way through the busy crowd, he finally made his way to the most important tent of them all.

Amid a rush of activity inside the tent, most of it was centered around the table that Tom and Damon commanded.

A map was spread over the table, and little wax figures in the likeness of people were placed all over it. Tom would point to some and talk to the men who would command the people. Among those who were listening to him, Blake and Damon were present. The latter was nodding and occasionally offering input.

"Sir," the courier said, giving Tom the folder. Tom took it, glanced over, and passed it to Damon with a curt "see to this". Damon disappeared into the crowd without any objection.

He hurried down the steps, looking for the person he would need, nearly knocking down Skinner, who was on his way up to Orlando's tent.

"Orlando," Skinner said breathlessly as he found the tent in question, "I've been looking all over for you." He leaned against the table while the immortal regarded him with an odd look. "Blake said to give you this." He dropped the folder onto the table.

"Right," Orlando said simply. He looked around and found what he was looking for and slid the folder across the table. "This is for Lupin."

Skinner gave him a look of disbelief. He had spent the whole afternoon running up and down acting as a courier for the tents and Orlando wanted him to go look for Arsène's tent?

"Ye're not serious, are ye?" Skinner asked, panting away.

"Any reason I shouldn't be?"

Skinner groaned as he took the folder from the table and went looking for Arsène.

* * *

Things finally settled down after dinner. Skinner welcomed the break from couriering. A bowl was handed to him and he gladly dug in. As he ate, he surveyed the people around him. 

Tomorrow the people would march for their freedom and take up arms. Everyone was, naturally, excited and anxious. It showed on their faces. Later on, Tom would return to the original headquarters to spend the night.

The American's reasoning of things was that if his location had been discovered, any of the Second Reich would be led to the abandoned cavern instead of the heart of the Underground. He wouldn't risk the whole revolution, he had told them. Damon would take over if he was caught, God forbid, and the revolution would proceed.

Skinner and Damon hadn't liked it, and neither had Mina or Jekyll. Nemo, on the other hand, had pointed out that they couldn't deny that Tom's reasoning was flawless.

So it was arranged that Tom would sleep in the old cavern, with some of Nemo's men as a guard.

Skinner hated it. The thought of leaving his leader and friend with only a small security detail in a place that the Second Reich might any time storm was unsettling, especially since the revolution was tomorrow.

He was interrupted in his musings when a familiar figure dropped next to him.

"Hey," Tom greeted as a bowl was handed to him.

"Hey," Skinner returned in kind. He watched as Tom ate his dinner, lamenting the loss of the young, happy American he had known from ten years ago. Tom obviously noticed his stares, and offered a smile while chewing. "What?"

Skinner blinked, startled. "What what?"

"You've been staring at me for the past five minutes, Skinner," Tom said, amused. "What's up?"

"Nothing," Skinner answered as he turned back to his food. He scooped up some of his food. "Nothing. Just...nothing." Tom's expression told him that he remained unconvinced, but he didn't pry. It was one of the things he had learnt from Aunt Polly.

There was a long silence between them as both men had their dinner. It would probably be the last decent meal they would have, Tom mused. They might as well enjoy it.

"I'm not sure about this," Skinner finally blurted out, unable to keep his silence. "Y'know, about the revolution and all."

"What's there not to be sure about?" Tom asked, half-shrugging. "Dante's ruled unjustly for the past ten years, and the people will have no more of it. This is their way of regaining their freedom."

"I know that. But you heard Blake's report yesterday too. The Second Reich has a hugearmy and more guns than we have people. How do you expect to beat them?"

"We have guns too," Tom pointed out.

"But none of them are automatic; none of them can fire dozens of bullets at one go. Half the men don't have proper guns, and we're short on bullets. Our guns are antiques and we're not sure if they will fire at all."

There was silence between them. Skinner's quiet outburst had been relatively unnoticed by the others, as the other men sitting by the fire had already left. The low buzz of night-time activity went about around them.

"Skinner," Tom said quietly, looking down into his bowl, "Don't you think I know that?"

Skinner stared at him in disbelief. He knew that, yet he was leading himself and others into a battle that would most likely take their lives.

"But we have to try," Tom answered, looking at him straight in the face. In his eyes, Skinner saw the understanding and the resignation. Tom knew people were going to die, but he was willing to risk it all to regain his — and the people's — freedom. "We have to. Don't you understand, Skinner? If we let Dante continue ruling, life is not going to get any better for the people of the world. It's going to get worse and worse, and Dante and Reed will get out of control. We have to stop this. Stop it before it becomes more of hell than it already is."

"Have you thought of what would happen if we lose?"

"Yes," he said sullenly. "I have. It's a risk we have to take. It's better to die on your feet than to live on your knees, Skinner."

Skinner nodded. "You know the risks."

"I know the risks," Tom said. "And I'm willing to take them, and so are the people of the London, France, Asia, America...everywhere. I can't let them down, Skinner. I can't."

* * *

Sue watched as the men of the Underground loaded the weapons they would use tomorrow. She fanned herself, fighting off the oppressive heat that had come down upon Beijing. Her father's protégée stood next to her, dressed as a simple peasant boy. 

"You see, Mao," Sue said to the young man in Chinese, "Sun Tzu's teachings (#2) are still actively used in today's battles."

Sixteen-year-old Mao Tse-Tung (#3) watched in awe as the workers carried the gunpowder across the grounds of the secret Underground base.

"Yes, my Lady," he answered. Sue looked upon him with approval; her father had picked this young man for his leadership qualities and now he was under Sue's wing. He would learn well, she thought, and one day become a great leader.

"Come," she said to him, closing her fan with a loud _tap _against her palm. She started across the warehouse's ground floor, a graceful figure in Chinese finery amongst sweaty and panting men. Mao trotted after her, looking around at his fellow countrymen.

To his left there were men filling makeshift missiles with gunpowder. On his right women were fashioning giant kites. Men would be strapped to the kites and that would enable flight. Further on, there were street kids squatting on the ground, fixing wicks on traditional firecrackers that would set any poor soul who got too near it on fire.

"As you can see," Sue said as they moved through the working people, "The people are preparing for tomorrow's battle." She didn't bother to check if Mao was listening; he probably was, because Fu Manchu had told him not to let him down. And everyone knew how badly Fu Manchu took to being let down.

There was a soft "yes, my Lady" from Mao, and Sue went on as they passed Underground members loading Western guns that her charge did not recognise. "Tomorrow you will be in charge of the men."

"Yes, my..." Mao started, but then he realised the full impact of what she had said. "What?" They ascended an old wooden staircase, going back up to the warehouse office level.

"You will be in charge of the men," Sue repeated. Mao knew he would have to tread carefully now. Both Fu Manchu and Fah Lo Suee did not like to repeat themselves.

"How come, my Lady?" Mao asked respectfully. At the top of the stairs, Sue turned to look at him, and he quickly bowed his head in submission. Her cool, green eyes regarded him for a while before she turned away and started off towards the offices again.

"I have business to take care of," she explained. _Business that involves the end of General Fang, _she added mentally. "Business that I must take care of personally."

"Of course, my Lady," Mao said. "I understand." In truth he did not, not by a long-shot, but he understood that the business of the Si Fan's leaders were best left untouched by those they did not concern.

Sue came to the door of her private office. Opening the door, she stopped and turned to her protégée. "Do not fail me, Mao."

He bowed his head again. "I will not, my Lady."

"Good," she nodded. She turned to enter her office. "Go help the men."

He nodded and disappeared down the corridor and down the stairs. He was promptly engaged with some of the kite-makers.

Sue watched him by her place at the railing. A small smile crossed her face for a brief moment, and then she went into her office. She had plenty of planning to do before tomorrow's warfare.

* * *

Robur listened to the voice over the transmitter radio. 

"_...and I offer my own ship and personal fleet of small aircraft." _

Robur looked to his chief inventor Phileas Fogg, who looked extremely nervous. After all, Captain Mors (#4) was a homicidal maniac. At least, that was what the papers said of him. The dangerous German Captain Mors and his ship the _Meteor_ were to be avoided at all costs. Robur knew otherwise. He and Mors had corresponded before, years ago. Mors had disappeared after that. Robur didn't know where, but there were rumors that he had gone to space.

"Thank you, Captain," Robur answered. "We accept your offer."

Phileas looked as if he might explode. His eyes were wide, and he gestured wildly as he tried to attract Robur's attention. A few engineers that were walking across the hangar to their ships pointed and laughed. Phileas was already a source of amusement because of his deplorable Russian and most of the Russian Underground considered him amusing but mostly harmless. There was no denying his brilliance, but unfortunately that didn't extend to learning a new language.

Robur made a gesture that silenced the English inventor.

"_We will enter Russian airship within two hours," _Mors' voice came over the radio.

"We are transmitting co-ordinates to you now, Mors," Robur said as he gestured to one of his men. The Russian man complied quickly, sending directions to avoid Second Reich detection to the cockpit of the _Meteor. _There was a short pause, some German dialogue that was not aimed at the Russian end of the line, and then Mors' voice came over again.

"_Co-ordinates received. We'll see you in two hours, Robur." _

"We shall see you then, Captain. Godspeed."

"_Meteor out."_

"Russia out."

Robur turned the dial on the radio and turned to look at Phileas, bracing himself for the lecture that was to come. "Alright, Phileas, you may speak."

"Captain, are you _insane?!_"

* * *

Raoul shivered through his thick coat. He was sheltered from the wind and the icy waters of the artic in the hollowed-out iceberg. He hated the weather in Greenland. _Trust yourself to be smart, Raoul, _he thought, _you come from France but you insisted on signing up with a Danish crew. _Not for the first time, he chastised himself for not being smart enough to sign on with a French crew. _But, _another voice in his head told him, _France's Underground does not have ships. It is a ground force. _His background was in naval work, and he had the choice of Australia or Greenland. He had no desire to travel to an English-speaking environment — he did not like the English — so he chose Greenland. 

"Raoul!"

Raoul tried to stop shivering as he turned to face the person who had called his name. "Yes, sir?"

Black came over to his first mate and patted him on the shoulder. "I know you're cold, Raoul. Go help the men. The activity will keep you warm."

Raoul nodded and stumbled over to the nearest ship, where the men were hanging precariously from the rigging of the mast. Around that ship, Black's fleet had moored in the frozen waters around Greenland. Black watched as his young lieutenant slid and skidded across ice patches, calling out that he was there to help.

Black was taking a break from the hectic planning for tomorrow. And Raoul had been standing there, stamping his feet and looking utterly miserable. Really, the boy needed to get used to the temperature. It had been five years already. He watched Raoul clamber up the mast with remarkable agility for someone so cold. Black was painfully reminded of his son. Wouldn't he be the same age as Raoul now?

Raoul, of course, had been mildly disturbed when he had first come onboard. The coarse language and the habits of the rough men of Black's crew had been a drastic change from the well-ordered and strict environment of a normal ship at sea.

"Sir!" Black looked to his left, where a messenger boy was running towards him. The boy was a deckhand on one of the ships, Black remembered. "From my Captain, sir."

Black took the note from the deckhand and read through it quickly. He nodded and strode off towards the table that they had set up at the corner of the busy harbour. It was time to get back to work.

* * *

The African sun beat down upon the cocoa plantation. It was a Saturday, a day that Nikola let his workers rest. The plantation should have been empty, but it definitely was not. 

Under the guise of a pre-harvest meeting, Nicola had invited the farmers to his plantation. It didn't take a genius chemist to realise what was going was definitelynot a pre-harvest meeting going on within the grounds of the plantation.

Hundreds were moving about, each busy with their own tasks. Antique guns, mostly of French origin, were being polished and oiled. Men were practising hefting their guns and aiming, but not firing. There were others who were testing some of the older guns, firing at dummies set a distance away. Those that were still usable were sent for fixing by the men that the rich white plantation owners had trained.

Nikola watched the bustling scene from his home. He let go of the curtains and the light drape fell back in place, hiding the ex-crime lord from view just as Mistoffelees appeared through the slightly-ajar door with a letter in his mouth. It pounced lightly from the floor to the chair and then onto the table, where it dropped the letter and settled comfortably, mewing to get Nikola's attention.

He moved over to the desk and ripped open the envelope. He read through it, and then sat down and began to compose a reply, acknowledging the note. He folded it and sealed it with some wax, and held it out to his pet. It had been clawing at a pad of paper that Nikola had left on the tabJonnyp.

"Mistoffelees," Nikola said chidingly. The feline seemed to shrug and it took the reply from Nikola as it rose and hopped off the table gracefully to deliver his orders.

He watched as the cat disappeared around the door to send his orders. He stayed like that for a few moments, before turning to the documents that rested on the table. There would be a meeting later on, and everything had to be in order by then.

* * *

Beneath the Paris Opera, AJ pushed the boat off the bank of the subterranean lake with a cheery wave to Roland and the main scene-shifter onboard.

The Opera was busy on two fronts; in the underground labyrinth inhabited by the Phantom of the Opera himself, temporarily converted into a store-house, and second, the Opera cellars. All five were being used as more and more supplies were brought in.

AJ helped one of the ballet rats — unless he was mistaken, her name was Jammes (#5) — pull a crate of medicine across the ground. Nearby, AJ's second was inspecting a box filled with absinthe bottles with some trepidation.

"What do we need absinthe for?" AJ heard Christian say as they passed him.

The young writer was his second-in-command, and AJ had no regrets about his choice of a lieutenant. He had met Christian not long after the Moulin Rouge affair had ended (#6). He was a reliable man and could wax lyrical like no other. _Poets, _AJ thought with some amusement.

AJ was just helping lift the crate into place when his name was yelled. "Monsieur Chrome!"

He turned and spotted the person who had called his name. He walked from the busy loading area to meet Sâr Dubnotal, who held a piece of paper. "What is it?"

Sâr handed him the paper. "We have word from Ruritania. Flavia says they received the ammunition that we sent last week."

AJ raised a brow as he read through Flavia's telegram. "Why did she only get it this week?"

"They had to be careful. Someone near the border had to hide it for a few days because Rupert's men smelt a rat and they could not risk sending it to Zenda (#8)," Sâr explained as AJ skimmed through the telegram. "They just got it today."

"And not a day too late," AJ muttered, passing the note back to Sâr. "Excellent. What about the Vatican?"

Sâr passed another note to AJ. "Van Helsing says that everything is under control; the evacuation of the paintings, murals and other precious artefacts is almost complete."

"I bet he's enjoying the fact that Cardinal Jinette (#8) has no control over this," AJ said wryly, a half-smile tugging the corners of his lips.

Sâr suppressed a smile. He was no friend of Jinette; one was a practiser of the lost arts of the East, while the other firmly believed in the teachings of the West. More than once they had sparred verbally and their relationship was far from friendly.

"We also received a message from Roulletabille (#9)." Another note was handed to AJ.

"The people in Budapest are 'ready to rip the head off any Second Reich'," AJ read from the note. "Well, sounds like our young detective has managed to rally the people around him."

"Indeed," Sâr answered. "And we have another note, from Venice."

Inwardly, AJ sighed. Before Sâr could say any more, he asked, "How many notes do you have?"

Sâr shrugged. "You requested reports from every cell we have in Europe, so..."

* * *

Ahab watched from the stern of his ship as Jack Sparrow sauntered across the deck of the _Black Pearl _(#10) giving orders as he went along. 

"...just remember," he drawled. "Don't let them blow holes in my ship."

The sun glinted off the gold coin that Jack wore around his neck. Ahab had no idea where he had gotten it, even though there were rumours amongst the crews that it was Aztec gold. Jack was never seen without his coin and it had become a signature of the mysterious Captain Jack Sparrow along with the dreadlocks and hat.

Ahab turned from Jack to his own ship. His men were busy loading crates into the hold. While the port documents said they were medicines, due to be sent to one of the other Australian ports, they were really cannon balls for the cannons and firearms for the men.

He had a good crew. They were not as good as the _Pequod_'s original crew, but they were a close second. They were dedicated to the freedom of Australia, and he had no doubt at all they would fight until the last to ensure they were free again.

"Come on, men, move!" Broad Arrow Jack was yelling. He had stationed himself near the entrance into the hold and had taken charge of the situation while Ahab had watched from the stern. "We don't have all day!"

* * *

"Joe!" Nick yelled as he muscled his way through a group of men who carried a crate each. "Joe!" 

Joe turned and saw Nick heading towards him. He hefted his Winchester rifle and let it rest on one shoulder, at ease, as he stood up to meet his second-in-command. A group of young boys followed him. Nick turned around and spoke to the group. Some of them looked like they were still kids. He watched as the other man headed towards him.

"Who're they?" Joe asked quietly, using his head to indicate the group. They stood some distance away.

"They're newsies," Nick said. At Joe's blank look, he explained. "Newsboys. They distribute newspapers. This group represents the newsies who work for the group that started the newsboy strike ten years ago." (#11)

Joe studied them with a critical eye. He judged some of them to be about eleven, maybe twelve. They were young, too young to be part of this. Then again, having contacts within the large community of newsies would be an asset. Didn't London rely on its street kids at times?

"They want to help," Nick was saying. "They can rally the newsboys together."

Joe nodded as he walked past Nick, handing his gun over at the same time, and over to the newsies. They saw him and one of them stepped forward. He was obviously their leader. Joe reckoned he was fourteen, but probably not older than that.

"What's your name?" Joe asked him.

"Jonny, sir."

"Right." Joe surveyed them again. "You say you want to help the Underground?"

"'course we do," Jonny said. "I reckon the rest of the kids want to, too. We represent the other newsies, sir."

"Of course," Joe nodded. He leaned down so that he was eye-level with Jonny and the others. "You are aware what you're getting yourselves into is very dangerous, don't you? All of you?"

All of them nodded. Jonny spoke again. "We can do lots for you, sir, we really can. We know people who know people, an' all."

There was eagerness about them that Joe found almost infectious. But it was dangerous, and they were so young. "I'll let you help us, on one condition." There was movement and murmurs of excitement among the group. Johnny waited for them before he spoke.

"Shoot."

Joe considered them. "The newsies will not fight. Not directly, anyway. You and your boys will stay out of the fighting when it starts. I don't want to see any of you with a gun or anything. Understood?" There were nods and sounds of affirmation.

"Good." Joe stood up and held out a hand to Jonny. "You're in."

Jonny grinned and shook his hand.

* * *

Percy tested out a few swipes with his sword. He planned to use it for close combat in the battles that were to follow the declaration of war. He still had his pistol with him and he would have a rifle proper soon. 

All around him there was chaos, but he wasn't too concerned about that. It had a certain kind of order to it, despite the paradox he knew presented itself to him. Orderly chaos, that was it.

"Percy," Tony said from beside him as he shoved his way through the crowd. He carried a rather large rifle in his hands. It would do serious damage to any one unfortunate to end up on the wrong end of it. He passed it to an awed Percy. "Winchester, 1892."

"A fine specimen," Percy agreed. He held it up at different angles to the South American sun, appraising its angles and curves. Tony had reason to be as proud as he was now; this was, indeed, a fine specimen. He lifted it, testing its weight and bearing. "Very nice." It was perfect.

Tony grinned as he sweated under his loosely-tied cravat. "I thought you might like it."

"Excellent thinking, my good man," Percy said, grinning and giving his long-time friend a strong pat on the back. "Excellent thinking." He lifted the gun again and pointed at the sky, sighting along the barrel. It was the perfect gun for him. "Begad, Tony, where did you manage to find this?"

"I know people who know people," Tony grinned. Percy gave a snort and knew he would have to ask his friend another day. "The rest of the League is either helping to arm the men, or assisting in some other way."

"Excellent." Reluctantly, Percy lowered the rifle. "Excellent." He gave Tony another pat on the back. "Excellent, Tony, excellent. Hélène doesn't stand a chance."

"Do be careful, Percy," Tony warned him as the two companions set off through the maze of activity that had located itself in the middle of Percy's plantation. "Hélène would have inherited some, if not all, of her father's cruelness or genius, if not both."

"Don't be such a woman, Tony," Percy grinned. "I'll be fine." _Because righteous vengeance guides my way, _he added silently, keeping the bitterness and sadness hidden behind a smile. He offered Tony another firm pat on the back as he continued, alone, into the mass of people moving about. "I'll be fine!"

Tony watched his friend disappear among the farmers and League members. A jaunty wave, and all six feet of Percy was eaten by the moving, churning mass of people. Still he stuck out, at least a head taller than the rest. His concerns had not been allayed. Percy would have to be very careful when it came to Hélène. Very, very careful.

* * *

(#1) The 'navvies' were the men who built the British railway system. They took their name from "navigators", the workmen who built the 18th century canals. The navvies worked at an amazing speed; there were times where they would move twenty tonnes of earth a day. They lived in shantytowns beside the tracks.

(#2) Mao Tse-Tung (or Zedong) was the chairman of the Communist Party of China from 1935-1976. It became the ruling part of mainland China. He developed a political way of thinking known as Maoism, a parallel of Stalinism.

(#3) In other words, _The Art of War. _Which, in case you don't know, is a Chinese military text written in the 6th century BC. In real life, Mao _did _find his military inspiration from the _Art of War. _Many other leaders (and now businessmen) still do so.

(#4) Captain Mors was the lead character in _The Pirate of the Air and his Navigable Airship, _a German dime novel published from 1908-1911. Mors is a masked captain whose ship, the _Meteor_, travels the stars to right any wrong. He "tears the ill-gotten gains from those who make enormous fortunes solely through the power of capital, and gives it to the poor and destitute" and also "protects the persecuted innocents, he punishes insidious criminals". His creator is unknown, but it is believed several science fiction authors of the time were involved.

(#5) Little Jammes is from _The Phantom of the Opera _(1911). She's one of the ballet girls in the _ballet de corps_, otherwise known as the "ballet rats".

(#6) Sâr Dubnotal is the "Great Physcagogue" and "Napoleon of the Intangible" among others. Generally credited to be the creation of Norbert Sévestre (although the series was published anonymously) he appeared in _The Haunted Manor of Creh'har-Vran _in January 1909.

(#7) Princess Flavia, Rupert (of Hentzau), and Zenda, a town some ways out of the capital of the fictitious country of Ruritania are all from Anthony Hope Hawkins' novel _The Prisoner of Zenda, _released in 1894.

(#8) Not the _Dracula_ Van Helsing, but the 2004 movie Van Helsing. Cardinal Jinette is from the same.

(#9) Roulletabille is one of Gaston Leroux's lesser-known characters. First appearing in 1907's _The Mystery of the Yellow Room_, eighteen-year-old Roulletabille is the nickname of Joseph Josephin, a journalist.

(#10) Really, if you don't know where this comes from, you've been sleeping under a rock for some time. Jack Sparrow and the ship _Black Pearl _are from 2003's _Pirates of the Caribbean: Curse of the Black Pearl. _

(#11) The 1899 newsboy strike really did occur in New York. The newsboys, a ragged group of runaways and orphans, were outraged when Joseph Pulitzer and William Randolph Hearst raised distribution prices by ten cents per hundred. Disney made a musical of it in 1992, and it's called _Newsies. _

For those of you who are wondering if Robur's correspondence with Mors is from the first volume of the comics, you're perfectly correct. I believe it was only included in the book-form of the comic, but I'm not entirely sure.


	23. Chapter 22

**Revolution  
****Chapter 22**

_So Moses said to the people, "Arm some of your men to go to war against the Midianites and to carry out the Lord's vengeance on them. Send into battle a thousand men from each of the tribes of Israel."  
__- Holy Bible, Numbers 31:3-4 _

Idly Reed scratched the plastic "skin" that marked the location of his face. Really, he was not fond of it, but his "skin" was necessary. While the fact that his invisibility made him feared by the people, the pasty white covering that substituted greasepaint made him look all the more menacing. And menacing was what he needed to keep the people in check.

Dante was standing in front of a huge mirror that dominated most of the wall. He fiddled with the buttons on his tuxedo, inspecting himself from different angles.

"Reed," he said, "How do I look?" He turned to look at his prime minister. His medals — most of them created after the Great War — reflected the light, almost blindingly.

"Like a king," Reed replied, stretching his legs out. The plush chair he had stationed himself in was very comfortable and big. He slouched in his seat, not caring what it might do for his back.

"I still think a commander-in-chief's uniform would be better," Dante said. He studied his profile in the mirror. "It would be even better if it was a German one."

Reed shook his head. "You must show the people how rich the Second Reich is, how grand their king can be. You need to show them who's in control. After ten years some of them may think your prowess are waning."

Dante nodded. "I know." He fiddled with his medals again, and a knock came at the door. "Come in."

Chauvelin entered, cap in hand. It was part of his captain-of-the-guard uniform that he had only donned once before. He bowed his head in respect and closed the door behind him.

"Is everything in place, Chauvelin?" Reed asked, sitting up properly. Despite the trust he had in his young protégée, he couldn't let the Frenchman see him slouching. It was not good for the Prime Minister's image.

"Yes, sir," Chauvelin said. "Everything is in order. My men are ready to step in once the funerary procession is over."

"Good job, Chauvelin," Reed nodded. "And the Kwaden?"

"The Kwaden will be posted near and around the platform that His Majesty will be on," he replied. "There will always be men on patrol. They are armed and standing-by."

"What do they have on them?" Dante asked, turning fully to face Chauvelin.

"We agreed upon automatic rifles and hand-guns, Your Majesty. The men are being outfitted with the rifles now." Dante nodded. Chauvelin had done a good job.

"Alright, Reed," Dante announced, moving towards the door. "Let's go. The people need to know that their king actually cares about them."

Chauvelin pushed open the door and stood aside to let Dante step through. Reed followed next. Chauvelin took a glance around the room. He pulled on his cap and, with a last nod to himself, exited.

* * *

The pit of Skinner's belly was filled with dread. The Underground ranks were forming as he and Tom prepared themselves for the fight. 

There was not enough gunpowder and even less guns. If the Underground members were put under siege, they wouldn't last a week. They were outgunned and to say that they were a ragtag army would be almost too kind. Very few men had formal military training and some of them only knew how to shoot a gun.

Tom was loading one of his Colts, as if they were back on the League's first mission again and not going to war with the rest of the world.

"Hey, Skinner," Tom suddenly asked, looking up from his guns. "Are you a church man?"

"Me?" Skinner snorted. " 'course not. I was too busy trying to keep myself alive to go to church."

Tom gave a small smile. He reached under his camp bed and pulled out a small satchel. It had been recovered from his wrecked apartment by one of Owen's gutter rats. He pulled out a worn Bible from it. "There's this part in Numbers...here. I'll read it to you." And he read out the two verses; when he finished he looked solemn.

"I'm not much of a holy man either, Skinner," he said, putting the Bible back into the satchel, "But I've lived by those verses for the past ten years. The people are here to take back what should be theirs." He replaced the satchel beneath his bed.

Skinner considered this. "You honestly think it'll work."

"Yeah, I do," Tom answered. "It's happened before; the Peasants' Revolt, the Jacobite Rebellion, the American fight for independence, the French Revolution. Sooner or later the people want change."

_Besides, _Tom thought a little bitterly, _Dante crossed the line when he destroyed St. Petersburg. Now it's personal. _

The young American continued loading his Colts. There was a comfortable silence between them as Skinner mulled over what Tom had just said.

Change. Wasn't that what revolts and revolutions were about?_ Change always needs someone to push it along, _Skinner thought, taking a long, hard look at Tom. _He's that someone._

"Wonder what Allan'd say about that," Skinner mused out loud. Tom looked at him, a sad look in his eyes. He'd lost too many mentors already. The invisible man answered his own question. "I'd reckon he'd pat you on the back and say 'Good job, boy'."

Tom smiled. "Thanks."

* * *

Mina moved swiftly through the crowd that had gathered on both sides of the street. She moved quickly, no more than a passing shadow in the hordes of people. She took great pains not to be noticed.

The vampire wasn't the only one dressed in black. Many of the other people present had met Zalma or talked to her before — such the expanse of her interaction with the people — and knew that she, along with 'Noah Caine', had fought for rights for the general populace.

Mina wondered what the people really thought their prayers could do for Zalma's departed soul. She had not met nor talked to the influential young woman before, but her exploits had been widely published in the papers. More than once Mina had received an offer to take her out. She had not taken the jobs, because the price she had been offered was too low. Milady had to keep up appearances.

Prayers wouldn't do much to help Zalma, she thought. Dante would have no doubt damned her through shamans, witches, warlocks and other supernatural practitioners of black magic he could find.

She knew more about death than any other sane person possibly could. Dracula's blood ran in her veins; _death _ran in her veins. She peddled death as Milady and she herself was half-dead. If there was any way to keep someone out of heaven, it was definitely through any practitioner of dark magic.

Mina skirted a puddle of water, noticing absently that even the streets in Limehouse were filling up. Usually the Chinese population of London let any important event pass through without noticing it, but this time it was an exception.

Turning a corner, Mina spotted the sign of Quong Lee's teahouse swaying in the slight breeze. She soon found herself hugged by the warmth of the interior.

"You here to buy fine tea?" Quong Lee asked, barely glancing at her as he arranged tea tins on the shelf behind the counter.

"I need some Darjeeling tea for my mother," Mina replied icily, as if she really were looking for some. Quong Lee nodded slowly and gestured to the curtain that led to the back of the shop.

"My best stock is inside. I will join you shortly."

Mina nodded and slipped behind the curtain. The back room was small and stuffy, lined with shelves filled with tea from all over the world. Looking at the ground, Mina searched for that small square, the only evidence that there was a secret underground passage leading from the shop to the sewers.

Locating it, she pulled open the trapdoor and descended within, pulling the heavy oak panel down as soon as she was far enough inside.

Moving briskly through the wet passage, careful not to fall on any patch of water that lined the steps, she walked further and further underground until she smelt the fetid stench of the sewers. She wrinkled her nose; the stench was powerful, especially so because of her heightened senses.

Her footsteps echoed loudly in the empty sewers, drowning out the gurgling of London's waste through the stone. It didn't take long until she saw lights and heard voices.

"Cor, 'strewth, it's the law!" someone tried to whisper — unsuccessfully — as her footsteps rang out against the cold mortar. There were the sounds of guns loading. Mina braced herself, rounded the corner...

...To two muzzles; one pointed at her face, another at her chest. She stopped, looked at the two men holding the guns. They relaxed instantly.

"Lawd above! Christ, ye scared us," one of them said, lowering his gun. The sentries knew her well; the widow dressed in black with the red scarf was not to be messed with. She noted that Tom had finally armed them with guns.

She offered them only an icy glare as she walked past them. She understood that they were just doing their job, but she did not appreciate having two guns pointed at her.

They were barely hours away from the declaration of war but the cavern that served as the Underground's battle command centre was relatively empty. Mina caught a glimpse of dark hair as Damon disappeared inside a tent, but none of a floating coat or tousled blond locks.

As she looked about for Skinner or Tom, Damon left the tent he had entered and came towards her.

"Looking for the Duke, Mrs. Harker?" he asked, stopping to stand next to her.

"Yes," she answered. "Have you seen them?"

"They're in their tent" — he pointed upwards — "right there. They should be coming out soon."

* * *

Nemo wrapped his blue turban around his head, carefully winding the long piece of dyed cloth around and around. He had changed from his white prayer outfit to his usual semi-militaristic one and was in the process of adding the final touches. 

His prayers concluded, he looked about at the figurines of the gods and goddesses that he knew and worshipped.

_Lord Shiva, _he thought as his eyes rested on a particular statue, _Are you about to bring the world to its end again so that Lord Brahma will recreate it as a better place? _

He certainly hoped so. Although he could not see or hear it, he knew his men were preparing themselves for war. Weapons would be dispensed and orders given by his capable crew.

What about in India, his beloved homeland? He wondered who Fah Lo Suee had appointed to guide operations there. During his tenure as one of the most successful Indian resistance fighters over the course of the past ten years, he had not once come into contact with the Underground.

Surely this man (or woman) would be more than capable of leading the Indians into battle. Despite knowing Sue for barely three days, he had no doubt that she had inherited her father's precision and exacting standards.

Nemo brought himself to the present. He would have to leave India in the Underground's hands; the battle he would be involved in was here in London and London alone.

Finishing the last of the trying up of the turban, Nemo left his room and strode through the hallways of the Nautilus to the bridge. There, he was greeted by the man who had the conn — Pavel, he said, was off making sure the engine men understood what they were supposed to do.

He peered through the periscope, watching as the crowd gathered along the dockside to catch a passing glimpse of Zalma's earthly remains. He'd said a prayer for her earlier that day; hopefully she would rest in peace, now that the people would finally fight for their rights.

"Report," Nemo ordered. Time to check if the Nautilus was ready for war herself.

* * *

Owen squeezed his way through the crowd, elbowing and shoving his way to the front. Around him, his other street kids were also doing the same. They knew what was going to happen and they were prepared. 

Owen and Jimmy had given instructions; when the fight broke out, the street kids were to help in anyway they could without endangering their own lives. His heart would break if any of his babies were killed.

Finally, Owen pushed his way to the front of the crowd. He was right at the street edge; if he got any further, he would be on the street itself. He slipped his fingers into his pocket, feeling the heavy stones and rocks that he had put. Both of his slings were there too, and his small fingers closed on one.

The children would be pelting any of the Second Reich with the stones and anything they could get their hands on, if only to give the Underground time to escape. He had no doubt it was going to be loud and messy and maybe even bloody, but he and most of the others had seen enough in their short lives not to be disturbed by it.

Still, the younger ones were back at the cavern. Anyone under five was staying back there with the women. Owen didn't want any of his younger babies to end up a corpse on the street.

Owen's keen blue eyes surveyed the street. His babies were in place, definitely. Jimmy was with Anne, directly opposite; the Twins were further down on the left. He spotted Darcy to Jimmy's right. Craning his next to look on his own side of the street, he saw Elliot, Tuesday, Wednesday, Monday and a few more of both Jimmy and his people.

As undisputed leader of the combined bands of street children, Owen had taken on the responsibility of father, mother, confidante, protector and best friend. It was a heavy burden, but he was used to it. Years of being the unofficial leader of a rabble of thirty kids had thought him more than he would have cared to know.

A figure slipped into an empty spot next to him. Looking up, Owen saw the youthful face of Tom Sawyer.

"Sssh," the cloaked American said, putting a finger to his lips. There were bobbies patrolling the street's edge, keeping the people in check. Owen nodded, and looked back down to the street. He was startled by the brush of his hand across naked skin.

'_tis only Skinner, _he realised. The invisible man was standing right in front of Tom, and Owen's hand had brushed Skinner's knee area.

Where was Mr. Archer? Owen looked about, trying to find the Underground second-in-command. There, right ahead — yes, behind Jimmy. A trilby covered most of his face and the rest of him was muffled up in a coat, but Owen would bet his hat that it was him.

Big Ben struck. One, two, three times...twelve in total. Owen looked up at the massive clock tower and saw that it was noon. The procession would begin shortly.

_Well, _he thought, pulling his hat a little harder down on his head, _time for the fight to start. _


	24. Chapter 23

**Revolution  
Chapter 23 **

_He don't care  
if we're dead or alive  
__Three satin pillows are under his head  
__While we're begging for bread to survive..._

_You got your thugs  
with their sticks and their slugs  
Yeah, but we got a promise to keep! _

_Once and for all  
Something tells me the tide'll be turnin'  
Once and for all  
There's a fire inside me  
That won't stop burnin'  
Now that the choices are clear  
Now that tomorrow is here  
Watch how the mighty will fall  
For once and for all! _

This is for kids shinin' shoes in the street  
With no shoes on their feet every day  
This is for guys sweatin' blood in the shops  
While the bosses and cops look away  
This is to even the score!  
This ain't just newsies no more!  
This ain't just kids with some pie in the sky  
This is do it or die!  
This is war!

Once and for all  
We'll be there to defend one another  
Once and for all  
Every kid is a friend  
Every friend a brother

Five thousand fists in the sky  
_(Five thousand fists in the sky)  
Five thousand reasons to try  
(Five thousand reasons to try)  
Better to die than to crawl!  
Either we stand or we fall!  
For once  
Once and for all! _

_- "Once And For All", Newsies_

The long, mournful bells of Big Ben rang across all of London. Half of the great city's population had gathered on the streets to see Zalma's funeral. Children shoved their way to the front of the crowds and some climbed trees to get a better look.

The funerary procession began to make its way down; it would only last for about an hour, and Dante had to sit through the whole ceremony. He wasn't happy about it, but the people needed their king.

His platform was mounted just outside the grounds of what had once been Buckingham Palace. Sons and daughters of nobility were seated on another platform set up near his own. They looked bored and spoilt. Many had secretly voiced objections to the whole procession, but fear of Dante and any reprisals were to be avoided at all costs, ensuring that Dante never heard a word of the complaints.

Still, he had his means. Spies deployed in the house, contacts who knew all and then some. He knew every little secret of each of the nobility and people of note. The case of Lord St. Simon was a good case in point. Although much of it was hush-hush and most of the details lost after the Great Detective's death — which, Dante noted with some satisfaction, had involved M (#1) — he had been able to gather enough intelligence to know that Robert Walsingham de vere St. Simon (#2) had once married an already-married woman. Dante knew that St. Simon had not known that his wife had been married, but with enough twisting of the facts he could make the general public believe anything.

The Rassendylls (#3) had not been very happy that Zalma would be having a state funeral complete with a band and soldiers. They had kept it under warps, but Dante and Reed knew that Rose had thought it was disrespectful. Robert Rassendyll was seated behind him, his wife beside him. Rose was fanning herself furiously, a sign of her unhappiness.

Dante reclined in his chair. He didn't really care what the rest of the world thought; his rule was absolute, his minions feared. Reed was very good in scaring the people into submission. Together they formed a powerful force that was not to be reckoned with.

Music started to play; a long, mournful requiem to Zalma von der Pahlen. The funerary procession started to move slowly along the streets in front of Dante and the others assembled. Across the street, women and children threw flowers at the coffin as it passed them.

Inwardly, Dante rolled his eyes. Zalma was already dead; it wouldn't do much good for them to throw flowers at her.

* * *

Young Anne looked out of the window shades, standing on tip-toe to see the procession past under her window. She heard footsteps, and turned to see her governess come up to her. Miss Lois Cayley came to stand next to her young charge. 

Anne's parents were out with the King to watch the state funeral. Anne had been left with Miss Cayley, and despite orders from her parents not to let her watch, Miss Cayley thought it would be good for the eight-year-old to see.

"Miss Cayley," Anne asked, face still glued to the window. "I thought the King didn't like Miss Pahlen."

"No, child, he didn't."

"Papa and mama were talking about it last night," Anne said. "Papa said the people will be angry, that they would not be happy."

"No, they won't." Miss Cayley looked at her.

"Are they angry, Miss Cayley?"

"Of course they are, child," she answered softly. Lois had connections with the Underground. She was a member of their ranks, but she was with Anne. Someone had to take care of the little girl. "Of course they're angry."

"Why, Miss Cayley?"

She turned to smile at Anne. So curious, as always. "Because Zalma was a hero to the people. With a state funeral, the King is trying to say that Zalma was his hero, too. It's the final insult."

* * *

Skinner heard the funeral song as the procession drew nearer and nearer. They were moving slowly, letting everyone have good look at the grandeur of the whole parade. Dante was showing off, trying to claim Zalma as his hero. 

The people from the Abbey were right in front, chanting and praying in Latin. There were a few boys of Owen's age there, too; about three or four of them. The altar boys were clean and dressed in white, unlike Owen and his children.

People around him strained their necks to catch a glimpse of her, before she was buried in Westminster Abbey. He had heard the other men talk: she would never be buried there; Dante did not respect her so and had seen her as a hindrance. She'd have a memorial there but she would most likely be thrown in some pit and forgotten.

Behind the religious group were some guards, dressed up all formal and nice in their tailored suits. He had to suppress a laugh when Owen made a rude gesture at them. He understood that the children weren't too fond of the guards of the Second Reich.

Taking a step back as one of the men passed dangerously close to him, Skinner tripped on the edge of the curb. He almost fell backwards but caught himself in time. He turned around to say sorry to Tom, but then he realised the spot behind him was empty.

Tom had disappeared.

Looking around, trying to locate his friend, Skinner searched in vain. Tom must have slipped away when no-one had been looking. Where the blazes had he gone to?

His eyes scanned the area, trying to locate a blob of yellow hair. There were too many about, and eventually he gave up. Switching to another tactic — looking for a black-robed person, surely there wouldn't be too many of those about — he could locate none, either.

The invisible thief started to get worried. Had Tom been mugged? He'd seen it before; thugs garrotting victims by pressing their fists on their windpipes 'til the unlucky bloke fainted and lost his voice. It was a widespread tactic, and even though Skinner had never used it, he knew it to be pretty effective.

Worse of all, he was stuck where he was. It was impossible to get through the crowd and to the back of the street, where Tom might have been lying, propped up against a lamppost or something, without revealing his presence.

He just had to hope for the best and pray that a Toby (#4) had not gotten to his friend.

* * *

Joe watched as the memorial procession passed down the streets of Washington. The crowds had gathered by the street's edge and black was the colour of choice amongst the people. Zalma may have been across the Atlantic, but they all knew of her work. 

Jonny's newsies were scattered about. Joe was standing next to him. He hoped that the young boy remembered their deal.

Further down the road, closer to the White House, platforms had been erected for Bevis (#5) and his fat pigs of aristocracy to watch in comfort the proceedings.

Joe could imagine how Bevis looked like now: dressed in fine clothes that costed more than any of the lower class could ever hope to earn, with that damnable crow sitting on his shoulder. Bevis was never seen without his crow.

Most of the world believed that the crow and Bevis had some kind of special affinity with each other, but Joe knew there was more to that; the governor of North America had the ability to speak to animals. The crow was his minion of sorts and carried his orders out to other animals. Whether they chose to respond to his orders or were forced to, Joe did not know, but he was not too concerned about any animals. If everything went as planned, Bevis would have only his crow...and how much damage could one crow cause?

The hearse passed him and Jonny. The child threw a flower as it passed him. Joe rested a hand on top of Jonny's head. It was sad that such a brave and forceful human rights fighter had to die so soon. Of course, Jonny thought it was due to the fact that Zalma had never been healthy. Joe couldn't find it in him to tell him otherwise; that Zalma had been murdered by Dante.

Nick was back in New York; no doubt they had their own service there. He was there to make sure that, after Dante's parade, the governor of New York would not be able to retire to Waldorf Hotel (#6) with the wealthy and famous of New York. There would probably be a feast then.

Underneath his heavy coat, Joe gripped his trusty Webleys tightly. All they were waiting for was the signal from London. He wasn't sure how and when it would come, but he had trust in his long-time friend. He'd know.

* * *

Sue fanned herself as she watched from her private balcony. Mao stood next to her, sweating under his collar. The heat was oppressive, but she remained unaffected by it. 

She had rented a small unit so she could watch the proceedings in comfort and not amongst the crowds that had formed all around Beijing. From her vantage point, she could see General Fang clearly.

The other woman was as dangerous as Fu Manchu's daughter. Her long metal claws glinted in the sunlight as she tapped her fingers on the fine rosewood chair she had perched herself on. Sue wanted to deal with her nemesis directly; Mao was capable enough to guide the people. If he needed help, there was always the Council of the Seven and her father.

She doubted that he would need any; he had proved himself a strong and decisive leader in the past, despite his young years. This would let her take care of Fang herself, and she was grateful for that.

Underground members were everywhere. Soon, when the go-ahead from London came — all hell would break loose on General Fang. The Underground would show themselves and war would be declared with a bang.

* * *

Robur looked down at Moscow with well-disguised contempt. High in the clouds, the _Albatross, _the _Meteor _and the ragtag fleet that the Underground called its own were waiting. 

Using a wonderful new technology of Fogg's, Robur was able to transmit a visual image of what was occurring from the _Albatross _to the other ships. It was like a photograph, except the things in it were moving; Phileas was rather proud of it. It was still in its prototype stage, but it was working well so far.

"Ready the men," Robur ordered one of his crew. "Tell them that the signal from the Black Duke will come soon." The crewmember ran off to disperse his captain's orders.

It would come very soon, Robur knew, most likely before the end of Zalma's funeral. All over the world it was being broadcast over the radio, and the _Albatross _was no exception.

The funeral song was blaring from loudspeakers set in the corner of the bridge. He had no idea how the signal would be, but the stoic Russian captain had a feeling it would be over the radio. Then again, he could be wrong.

Below them, Dante's magnificent Aerial Attack Force, better known as the AAF, were waiting. When Dante's own parade started, they would show off their moves and awe the people. Robur's contacts told him that Kurtz would board one of them later, but they did now know which one.

It was of little consequence. At the end of the day, all of them would be destroyed or captured by the Underground. Vladivostok would be the AAF's best choice to repair and refuel their ships — Robur would make sure the base in Moscow was destroyed before they could use it. But Vladivostok would be severely crippled, because a fleet was dispatched there to cause as much damage as they could.

Robur smiled to himself, despite the grim mood the funeral songs were putting everyone in. The Second Reich would pay for the final insult to the people.

* * *

AJ mixed with the crowd that had gathered to watch Zalma's final earthly journey. He was at the outskirts of the city, close to where the Versailles was located. The festivities would normally have begun in the heart of the city itself, but Hélène had insisted that both the parades would begin and end at the magnificent palace. 

Christian stood next to him, looking about nervously. The young Englishman was jumpy, but he hid it well. His friends were all over the place; the 'children of the revolution', as they called themselves, were scattered all over Paris and surrounding areas.

Looking across the street, AJ could see fellow Underground members. They were armed and ready; all they had to do was to wait.

No one knew when the signal for battle would come; AJ had a feeling that it would be as dramatic as Tom's escape from the gallows, maybe even more so. Beneath his own coat, AJ could feel his weapons, heavy and comforting.

Around him, his Underground men knew what to do. AJ looked towards the Versailles. He couldn't see Hélène, but he knew she was there. Her father, probably, but he couldn't be sure.

He didn't care. Hélène was his target. With her, the flag that flew on the top of the Eiffel Tower would come down.

* * *

The sea spray was cool against Ahab's weathered cheek. The _Pequod _was anchored not far off from the Australia coast. Around the _Pequod, _the other ships that made up the fleet were also anchored. 

Looking about, Ahab saw the captains of the other ships standing on the deck, heads turned in the general direction of the mainland. The flag on the ships' masts was that of the Second Reich. The dragon fluttered in the wind, then drooped as it died down.

Some of Ahab's crew had pleaded with him not to put up the flag. He understood why they were so averse to it. They had been extremely unwilling to climb up to the crow's nest to attach the flag and in the end, Broad Arrow Jack had taken it upon himself to do so.

His crew were gathered in various places on deck around their captain, most of them having found a place on the rigging. Someone had brought a radio onboard, and the broadcast from London was audible but full of static. They were a quarter of a mile from the shore, masquerading as merchant ships, hence the flag.

Of course, there was something prepared for later on that would shock the living daylights out of the Second Reich. Broad Arrow Jack was standing in the crow's nest, the only one there. He was charged with the important task of the surprise, and Ahab knew his second-in-command would do a great job.

Everyone was tense. They knew it was coming and soon. His young, able crew were ready to spring into action, as were the crews of the other ships.

He pulled out his spyglass and looked towards the harbour, trying to spot his Second Reich counterpart. There, in the stands — yes, it was definitely Joseph Conrad (#7). An old man, but for every year of his age he had twice the amount of experience. He was fifty-five but still going strong.

Ahab fully intended to be rid of Conrad. Both of them were old and not too far from their ends. If they did not die now, then they would die soon. Ahab wanted his death to be an honourable one. The thought of dying an old, sick man in a bed was unbearable. _If I am to meet my death today, _he thought, _then let it be at the hands of a worthy opponent.

* * *

_

Percy had not swapped his finery for simpler clothes. He had to maintain an appearance — had he dressed any different from normal, someone would notice and the revolution would be put at risk. He did not want that to happen, so he was willing to get his expensive coats and shirts ripped if it came to it.

He had not opted to join the officials and important people of Rio in the middle of the grand stands that had been erected for the occasion. Instead, he was at the edge of the seats. In the confusing after London declared war, he intended to slip away and join Tony and the men.

Up until then he had to keep up the illusion that he was a fop. A wealthy fop who had a taste of clothes of the era circa the French Revolution, but a fop nonetheless. It was a façade he was tired of, but it was very effective. After all, who would believe that a fop could lead a cell of the Underground?

His new gun and sword were not with him. He felt unprotected and more than a little nervous, but he carefully hid it from everyone, especially the Underground members. The people needed a figurehead. In the absence of the Black Duke, the responsibility fell to him. It was a heavy burden, and a familiar one.

Percy made sure his thoughts did not show on his face as he watched the funerary proceedings. The radio transmission from London was loud and clear, especially from where he was sitting. He would have no trouble hearing the declaration when it came.

* * *

Mistoffelees had curled its little furry body on Nikola's shoulders, a dark shape on the slender man's body. 

The deadly doctor was an odd figure in the crowd of mostly natives, gathered about the streets of Morocco. No-one paid him any mind, though. The Africans had learnt to ignore the white men.

Mistoffelees' head rose up from its spot on Nikola's shoulder as the front of the convoy passed them. It gave a sad little mew, sounding very much like a newborn kitten.

"Now, now, Mistoffelees," Nikola said softly, reaching up a gloved hand to stroke the feline's silky black fur, "Don't be upset. Zalma will be avenged."

His cat purred in agreement, keen eyes watching every move of the convoy. Nikola was sure that Mistoffelees would wreck its fair share of chaos when the time came. In fact, he was expecting it.

He would also cause his fair share of havoc as well. Usually he had no appetite for fighting, but today he had vowed that the Comte would go down, and so go down he would.

Of course, he would be heavily guarded by his men. They had sworn absolute loyalty to him, mostly because their families had some sort of debt with the Comte. But even men could be persuaded by the threat of death and perhaps even amnesty from whatever they owed the Second Reich.

The vial of clear liquid rested in a small case that he had put in his coat pocket. No-one except Philippe de Chagny would be the victim of its contents. For the others Nikola had reserved the edge of his steel blade, hidden in his cane. He had used it only twice before but, while he would have rather stuck to his poisons and chemicals, he had found that the occasional use of a sword was necessary.

The final insult would be paid for in blood.

* * *

Black peered through the spyglass at the flotilla of Second Reich ships some distance to the starboard of his own. Around him, the Underground ships were ready to lift anchor once the signal was given. 

He was no fool. Despite the fancy decorations that adorned the warships, he knew that they were fully armed and battle-ready. He'd come up against a few of them before. Black Michael was a paranoid man. Black supposed it came from years of intrigue in the courts of Ruritania.

At least two warships were always armed and fully manned. Of the four that were stationed at Greenland itself, two more were not too far out of sailing range. Black had to make sure that the two warships didn't make it to the Artic Sea in time to help, or to capture them.

He had capable captains with him; he could assign them that job. However, there was still the signal to wait for. London couldn't have stressed the point more; no action was to be taken until the signal came through.

The sounds of a traditional funeral song came over loudspeakers mounted all over the harbour. Even from the _Pequod_'s distance of three-quarters of a mile offshore, Black fancied he could hear the faint requiem.

* * *

Skinner's attention had returned to the funeral. Slowly the procession made its way to where he and the others stood. He tried to see the coffin, which was being pulled along by two sturdy horses, but there were too many men. 

The bells in Westminster chimed mournfully, but suddenly the front of the crowd started to make plenty of noise. What was happening? Skinner tried to see what was causing the excitement — and had the shock of his life.

Tom was on the back of a white steed, galloping towards the funeral procession, standard in hand!

And on the very top of the pole...Skinner couldn't believe his eyes. The Underground flag flew brave and true, whipping in the wind as its bearer made steady progress.

A roar rose up through the crowds as Tom passed them, a blur of white and gray. In front of the procession, which had come to a sudden halt, Tom stopped his horse. The great beast was huge, and looked like a white devil, breathing mist into the chilly London air.

The look on Tom's face was positively terrifying. Defiance, pride, courage, determination and others had chosen to paint themselves on the canvas of his face.

"This is for Dante." His voice rang out loud and clear in the silence that had reigned after his dramatic appearance. It was impossibly loud. Surely there was some sort of device concealed on him somewhere that was magnifying his voice over the loudspeakers. Skinner supposed it was something like hijacking a radio signal, just like they had done a few days ago.

"The Underground gives him one last chance to give up peacefully." The horse skittered, but Tom brought him under control again. "One last chance to surrender with no bloodshed. Does he accept?"

* * *

Dante nearly roared in fury. The beast inside him did roar, however, as he jumped up from his seat. "Reed!" 

"I know!" Reed was scrambling to get to the front, where the announcer was looking dumbfounded.

"What's going on?" he demanded.

"I-I don't k-know, sir," the man stammered. "T-they took over the s-signal and we couldn-n't get it b-back."

Reed positively growled like an animal and snatched the microphone away from him as Dante came hurrying down towards them.

"The Underground stole our signal again," Reed informed him as the terrified man shrunk back. "Sawyer is transmitting."

"_Does he accept?" _the Underground leader's voice rang out again.

Reed looked at Dante, who looked at him before grabbing the microphone. "The Second Reich will never surrender!"

* * *

"_The Second Reich will never surrender!" _

_So be it, _Tom thought. He raised the banner high in the air for the entire world to see. "For freedom!"

The world around him roared.

* * *

(#1) The Great Detective in question here is Sherlock Holmes; his death was chronicled in _The Final Problem, _where he and Prof. James Moriarty were believed to have fallen to their deaths in Reichenbach Falls. Everyone, of course, know that Moriarty or M returned in the LXG movie. 

(#2) Lord Robert Walsingham de vere St. Simon, second son of the Duke of Balmoral, was from one of the Sherlock Holmes cases by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, called _The Noble Bachelor. _He married the unwittingly still-married Hatty Hay Moulton.

(#3) The Rassendyll family are a family of nobility in England in Anthony Hope Hawkins' novel _The Prisoner of Zenda _(1894). They're comprised of brothers Robert and Rudolf, the former of whom is married to a woman called Rose.

(#4) A person who robbed others on the street was known as a Toby. They were the ones who practiced garrotting.

(#5) Bevis was created by Richard Jefferies and appeared in _Wood Magic _(1881) and its sequel, _Bevis _(1882). The version used here is from the second book. Bevis, at age 5 or 6, has the ability to speak with animals and plants. They're intelligent and talk to him also.

(#6) The Waldorf Hotel was built in 1893 by William Waldorf Astor. In 1929 it located uptown and the Empire State building built over the site.

(#7) Writer of _Heart of Darkness, _Joseph Conrad (real name Józef Teodor Konrad Korzeniowski) was of Polish descent, and in 1874, he abandoned his education to become a seaman. He spent the next twenty years sailing around the world before finally settling down and writing _Almayer's Folly, Heart of Darkness, _and others.

The scene with Lois and Anne is inspired by a similar scene from 1998's _Les Miserables, _in which Valjean (Liam Neeson) explains to Cosette (Claire Danes) why the people are marching against the king's decision to give Lamarque a state funeral.

Garrotting was also a problem in Victorian England. Some folks made money by producing thick leather collars that protected a wearer from garrotters.


	25. Chapter 24

Argh, I'm sorry for the long lapse betwixt chapters. My muses went away for a while and real life caught up with me, but everything's okay now and I can write again. :) I hope you enjoy this chapter. Comments are, as always, welcome.

* * *

**Revolution  
****Chapter 24**

_Somewhere in the darkness, there's a hero  
__Waiting 'til the moment is right  
__Like a phoenix he'll rise, throw off his disguise  
__Bring us through the night  
__Into the light!_

- Somewhere in the Darkness, _Holmes!_

The horse got excited and reared up, a great beast of energy. Tom was nearly thrown off, but he brought the stolen horse under control in time.

Tom knew that elsewhere, in the other Underground cells, similar unveilings of the flag of the Underground were happening.

When the Underground leaders were in London, Tom had summoned a Lois Cayley to the then-headquarters and let her make several duplicates of the flag. Skinner had been a bit miffed when he had been chased out of the meeting that took place later on, but it had been necessary. The flags were meant to be a surprise for the people and a point to rally around.

And rallying around him they were. The roar of a freedom suppressed had resounded around him, and now the people were spilling onto the streets around him.

* * *

"Run, Jonny, run!" Joe yelled. Jonny tore down the street as fast as his legs could carry him. He was a fast runner and soon disappeared from sight. 

"Extra! Extra! Hear all about it! Underground declares war on empire! The Underground has declared war on the Second Reich!"

He raced down the street as the other newsies heard the signal and ran off, spreading the word around New York. "Carryin' the banner", as Jonny loved to say.

Joe drew his pistols in one swift motion and fired them into the air, his coat falling to the ground; the Underground members in the immediate vicinity charged, roaring with ten years of repressed rage.

Looking up, Joe saw the crow hovering around the scene. He tried to bring it down, but it was too fast and eluded his bullets, instead giving a shriek and zooming off back to Bevis.

"Damn," he swore, but turned his attention elsewhere. His flag-bearer would be here just about..._Now, _Joe grinned.

A small plane descended towards the ground, the Underground flag flying behind it. The two Wright brothers whooped and dipped low, so low that Joe could see the paint on the underside of the _Kitty Hawk. _

It then rose up into the air again and sped off to other parts of New York, carrying the banner of freedom.

* * *

"Bring her down," Robur ordered, and grabbed the railing of the bridge as the _Albatross _banked sharply and began a rapid descent. 

Robur had had the Underground flag duplicated, with a few changes to it size. It adorned the side of the _Albatross, _proud and true. The flag that the Black Duke had given him was mounted on a pole just outside the bridge. It whipped around in the wind as the _Albatross _and the fleet bore down through the heavens.

Robur stood at the front of his bridge, his men at their posts. They had been trained to respond to such a situation and they were doing well.

He was at the rail as the _Albatross _and her allies broke the cloud cover, emerging like angels.

Robur fancied he could hear the jubilant cries of Russia beneath him.

* * *

"Raise the flag!" Ahab ordered. His men sprang into action and cheered as the Second Reich flag dropped from the mast, only to be replaced quickly with that of the Underground. The crews on the other ships also cheered loudly. "Onward!" 

The great ship began to move forward, gradually picking up speed as all the sails were unfurled and the steam engines put to work. Behind and around them, the rest of the fleet advanced, the _Pequod _in the lead.

They raced through the water. The sea spray was cool and salty against Ahab's face as the _Pequod _raced through the water towards the shore.

His men were busy all around the deck. Ahab said to the quartermaster, "Ready the guns."

"Ready the guns!" the quartermaster shouted. The order was passed to the men below deck. There was a rumbling below their feet as the heavy canons were rolled out by the _Pequod_'s side.

The fleet sped through the water, steadily gaining on the Second Reich ships. Ahab was at the front of the ship, enjoying the feel of sea spray against his weathered face. It might be his last time.

Jack came up to him, having quickly descended from the crow's nest. "Today's a good day to die, Captain."

"Yes, Jack," Ahab said solemnly, "It is."

* * *

Percy had already slipped away from his seat in the chaos. Quietly, urgently, he had strode through the streets to meet Tony at their agreed point. Tony held his gun and his scabbard strapped to his side. 

The people had gathered behind him. Even more were spilling onto the streets, having ran back to their homes to grab some sort of weapon, be it a gun, sword or just a frying pan. Anything they could do to help, they would do.

As the first shouts of the chaos started, Percy drew his sword in one smooth motion. He raised it up in the air.

"Onward!"

They charged. As Percy joined them, he glanced up at the statue of Christ that overlooked the whole city. _Marguerite, _he thought, _I do this for us.

* * *

_

There was a sort of scared silence in the city, but Sue knew it would not last for very long. She continued fanning herself, acting as if nothing had happened. Next to her, Mao fidgeted. He was eager and no doubt nervous. 

People pointed up at the sky. Everyone looked up at the two red rockets speeding through the clouds. Sue gave a small smile; her fireworks men were right on time.

The fireworks finally reached their destination at the very height of their flight. With a loud _boom, _they exploded. Cries of amazement and shock rang through the crowd gathered below as the Underground phoenix formed in a shower of sparks.

At the same time, there were yells from her men; people looked to see what the commotion in the buildings was about. Right on cue, the flag was released and it slid down the lines that they had erected between two of the buildings. It came to a stop right in the middle of the square and the people started cheering as her men poured into the square.

Sue tapped her fan against the palm of her hand. It closed with a snap. Without a word, she turned on her heel and left the room. The revolution was on.

* * *

AJ drew his weapons as Erik dropped the magical lasso onto one of the guard's necks and pulled. The man was lifted a foot off the ground and he struggled, pulling at the sturdy rope around his neck. His efforts came to no avail. As soon as he went limp, the lasso was loosened and went onto another's guard's neck. 

The hidden Underground members yelled and rushed forward. AJ noted that Madame Giry was leading another group of younger revolutionaries.

Erik was a blur of black against the rooftops as he ran along them to get to the flag. He grabbed it from it hiding spot and, hooking his leg around a pipe that ran along the length of the building, slid down like a fireman. He was halfway down when he flung it into the air. "Raffles!"

AJ looked over and caught the flag as it fluttered to the ground. He caught it.

"Vive la revolution!" Erik cried, reaching the ground and running off to kill more guards.

"Vive la revolution!" someone started to chant. "Vive la revolution!"

* * *

The ship cut through the water like a knife through hot butter. Black was at the helm, navigating the vessel himself. Raoul was dashing about behind him, shouting orders to the men. 

The rest of the flotilla sailed next to them. They were making good progress as they neared shore. The Underground's flag flew brave and true on the mast of his ship, whipping around in the icy winds of the Artic.

Raoul was no longer shivering; the activity and adrenaline was warming him up. Frozen water got onto him as he helped the men, but he didn't care. It was his chance to liberate the people with the help of his captain and friends.

He would not let it out of his reach.

"Raoul! Guns!" Black yelled.

"Aye sir! Guns! Where are the guns!"

* * *

Mistoffelees leapt off Nikola's shoulder lightly. It disappeared into the crowd, heading straight for the police forces. 

Nikola let his cat wander off, confident that it could take care of itself. He walked calmly out of the panicking crowd, as if he was taking a stroll in Hyde Park on a typical London day.

His men were capable; Hafiz was capable. The leader of his men would ensure that everything would proceed relatively smoothly, just like he had ordered.

Passing into one of the small streets, Nikola saw Mistoffelees pounce onto a guard and claw at his face. The man went down with a strangled cry as the first of the armed Underground men spilled into the streets.

They would take care of the small fry. He had a bigger fish to catch.

* * *

There was panic in the funerary procession. They had not expected this — Dante had believed any attack would be made during his own parade, not Zalma's — and there were not quite enough guards. 

The altar boys were sprinted off and the guards tried to fight back, but the sheer number of people overwhelmed them. Their defense was half-hearted as well.

Damon was closer to the coffin than Tom had been, and he had led a mob towards it. He clambered onto the driver's seat — the driver had been evicted with a shove and a "Move" — and grabbed the reins of the horses, yelling away.

"Zalma deserves a proper burial! We'll give her one!" he yelled over the din of thousands cheering. Owen scrambled up the side of the hearse, hanging onto the coffin to make sure it didn't slide off. He was yelling revolutionary slogans as well.

"The kid's ain't gonna take it lyin' down no more!" He pumped his fist in the air. "No-one's gonna take it lyin' down anymore!"

Skinner shoved his way to them. The way parted as Damon urged the horses on towards the riverside. The plan was to safeguard Zalma's body at Somerset House, an Underground stronghold on the bank of the Thames.

Tom was working the crowd to an almost-frenzy. "We've had enough of the Second Reich! It's time for the people to stand up and claim what's ours!"

Damon spurred the horses on, Owen clinging to the edge of the coffin and Skinner beside him. They were quite a sight, with a runaway funeral hearse speeding through the streets of London, its living passengers shouting at the top of their lungs and a blond on a horse behind them, raising the revolutionary flag high up in the air. The crowd that followed them was huge, gaining people by the street.

"Mr. Archer! Coppers!" Owen yelled to the front. One hand was resting on his head to stop his hat from flying off, the other hanging on tight to the pall of the casket.

"I know!" Damon gritted his teeth together. They were nearing the rushed assembly of police constables, most of whom looked like they didn't want to be in the path of a raging crowd. Damon didn't slow, because he knew what was going to happen.

Blake and his ragtag army of armed men appeared from the alleys, chasing the constables with the promise of casualties. Damon risked a wave at the Underground's security chief as he passed, and received a quick salute in return.

A sense of wonder and awe filled him as they hurried through London. They'd done it. They'd started the revolution!


	26. Chapter 25

**Revolution  
****Chapter 25**

As close as we are today, tomorrow when we come back from that battlefield, we will be as close as two men can possibly be, sharing a bond that can only be forged in the face of imminent disfigurement. We few, we happy few, we band of brothers. For he today that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother.  
_- Jeff Melvoin_

The fighting spread through London like a wildfire. Some people compared it to the fire that destroyed most of London in the seventeenth century, and they were right. While not quite as devastating, the fighting took its toll on the city's buildings. The men had been quick to take up arms and even though many of them had no formal military training, it took the Underground three days to secure the south of the river. Many of the residents there had given up without a fight, sure that they would be able to tide out the war if they lay low and didn't make a sound.

Damon, Skinner and Tom were on the front lines. Hyde was seen at many battles, often charging towards a group of terrified men, bellowing curses and threats. Most of them scattered before he came anywhere near them, but it had the wonderful effect of chasing most of their enemies away.

Most of the assassins chose not to take part in the fighting, even though a good number of them chose to take sides. Fortunately for the Underground, the professional killers joined their ranks instead of the Second Reich. Mina led the makeshift corps, leading small groups on killing rampages through the ranks of the Second Reich. Dozens were killed before anyone noticed something was wrong.

The Second Reich were also quick to respond. Kwaden, soldiers and troops were deployed all over to the city, and eventually the Underground troops were forced to retreat.

Tom was running towards Tower Bridge with the rest of his men. It had dawned on them quite early on in their most recent battle that the Second Reich had gotten their act together; they were outnumbered and underarmed. They had to regroup if they didn't want their casualty rate to soar.

"Back! Across the bridge, quick!" Arsène was yelling. He took a few shots at the Second Reich who were hot in pursuit. They were the last batch to head across the bridge. "Quickly!" Tom and Blake took aim with their rifles and fired. Two men at the front dropped down dead as the they started running again. They took cover behind an abandoned cart left, with other vehicles, two-thirds of the way across the bridge.

"We need to blow the bridge up or they're gonna cross!" Arsène heard Tom yell to Blake.

"We don't have the time," Blake said to Tom, ducking down again as bullets flew over his head. "We'd need to rig the dynamite but by the time we did that they would be across."

"Leave it to me," Arsène told them, peering around the cart. "I know how to work the mechanisms. I shall raise the bascules."

"What!" Tom was aghast. "That's suicide! You'll be caught behind enemy lines."

"I know," Arsène said, as if he didn't care. "Monsieur Blake...?"

Blake loaded his rifle and cocked it. "I have you covered."

"Merci," Arsène nodded. "I shall see you again, monsieur Duke, perhaps only after this war is over. Until we meet again — good luck." He saluted him and turned to Blake. "On the count of three, then. One, two, three!" He dashed out from the cart, ducking and dodging the bullets aimed for him.

Blake rose from his spot and fired, Tom joining him soon after. They took down six or seven more men as the French thief made a mad dash for safety. Some of their men took aim also and more of the enemy dropped like flies; Arsène slipped behind a Ford and disappeared down the side of the bridge, running towards the control room where he could give the order to raise the Tower Bridge's two bascules.

The fire fight was fierce, but eventually Tom began to realise that they were rising up into the air. _He made it! _His mind screamed. The bascules were raising and if they could just hold the fort for a little bit more...

The cart began to slide down as the two ends of the bridge rose higher and higher. There were the sounds of metal hitting metal as the bullets finally ceased their assault. Blake and Tom abandoned their hiding place and scrambled down the road, which was getting steeper. They hit the ground and dove for cover as the cart crashed down where they had been standing moments ago. A terrible metallic squealing came from the underground engines, as if someone had shoved something between the giant gears. They jammed at their highest point.

"Sawyer!" Skinner ran to them. "You okay? Blake?"

"We're fine," Tom assured him, standing up from where he had rolled away from the splintered mass of wood. He dusted himself off. "We're fine." He glanced back towards the other bank of the river, trying to spot Arsène. Was he dead? Injured, maybe even captured? If so, then Tom took comfort in the knowledge that his brother-in-arms would not spill any information, no matter how much torture Dante and his men inflicted upon him.

"Where's Lupin?" Skinner asked, looking around. "Wasn't he with you?"

Tom left Blake to explain everything, instead going over to a group of injured men being treated by a haggard Dr. Seward. He asked the doctor what their casualties were.

"Lower than we had first predicted," he said, "Thank goodness we have enough medicine and other supplies" — he pressed a swathe of bandages against a cut on one man's head — "otherwise our death toll would be much higher than it is now." He gave a nod to Tom as he moved to another patient that seemed to say 'I respect you for the foresight'.

"Yeah, well, my Auntie Polly always said it's better to be safe than sorry." Tom smiled and scratched his head. Seward smiled back and set about making a tourniquet for another patient. Skinner came up to him, tapping him on the shoulder.

"Damon wants to see you now," he told the other man. "Says it's important. He's in the hospital tent."

Tom's heart sank. One of his closest friends was behind enemy lines; another was injured and in the hospital. He and Skinner set off hurriedly, passing the regrouping forces. "What happened to him?"

"Took a bullet to the leg." Skinner passed the street kids, who were reloading their catapults with rocks. "Near Big Ben. Mina says he'll be up and about soon, provided he actually sits down and rests."

Tom let a ghost of a smile come over his features. That was the Damon Archer he knew, always spunky and refusing to sit down. A lot like him, actually. He pushed open the flap of the hospital tent and entered. Damon was at the corner; upon seeing him, he waved and they joined him by his cot. With him was another man. The first thing that struck him was that the other man was corpulent. His watery grey eyes were framed by a massive face. There was something about him, though, that seemed to speak of a keen intelligence and a sharp wit.

"Tom," Damon said urgently. "Thank god you're here. Mycroft was just about to go."

"Mycroft Holmes (#1), sir," the man said, extending a broad, fat hand. Skinner gaped at him in shock as Tom shook it. "You may have heard of my brother Sherlock."

"Are you kidding?" Tom smiled broadly. "They talk about him in the States."

Damon was getting impatient. "Tom, Mycroft and Sherlock have been hiding someone very important for the past ten years." Tom's quizzical gaze turned on their visitor.

"Yes. Well, you see — when the Great War broke out and it became apparent that the Her Majesty's Imperial Army was not able to hold off the invading forces, the Royal Family were evacuated," Mycroft started. "The court and the Royal Family had planned to escape to Ireland or Scotland and bide their time there, hoping to raise an army to combat Dante's forces — if they invaded — or, if they did not, for their own safety." He paused. "As you know, the family and their entourage were massacred before they could leave England."

Tom frowned. That was one of Dante's all-time lows; he had remembered getting news of the death of the entire Royal Family. Subsequent months had seen more deaths as Dante had consolidated his power on the throne.

"My brother and I were travelling in the area at that time. A young boy, no more than four years old, came running out of the woods. He was incoherent and crying. We quickly discovered that he was, in fact, Albert Frederick Arthur George, the last remaining child of the House of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha (#2)." Mycroft levelled a steady gaze on the bewildered Skinner and shocked Tom. "He has lived with us for the past decade to keep him alive as Dante killed off anyone even remotely related to the throne. My brother is with him now in Sussex Downs (#3)."

Damon summed it all up. "Victoria's grandson lives."

* * *

(#1) Mycroft is the brother of Sherlock Holmes, older by seven years. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle first introduced him in _The Greek Interpreter _(1893)and he went on to appear in a number of other stories. His powers of observation and deduction exceed that of Sherlock, but unlike his distinguished brother, he is too lazy and apathic to act on them. 

(#2) Albert Frederick Arthur George Windsor would, in 1936, ascend to the throne to become King George VI. He is the grandfather of Queen Elizabeth II. He is most famous for tiding Britain through World War 2. During the First World War, his father George V changed the name of the Royal Family to Windsor as Saxe-Coburg-Gotha was perceived to sound too German. As World War 1 never occurred in this timeline, he is referenced here with his father's original last name. He died in early 1952.

(#3) Sherlock Holmes retired to Sussex Downs, a small seaside community in England. _The Adventure of the Lion's Mane _(released 1926) is set there.


	27. Chapter 26

**Revolution  
****Chapter 26**

"You ask, what is our policy? I will say; 'It is to wage war, by sea, land and air, with all our might and with all the strength that God can give us: to wage war against a monstrous tyranny, never surpassed in the dark lamentable catalogue of human crime. That is our policy.' You ask, what is our aim? I can answer with one word: Victory — victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror, victory however long and hard the road may be; for without victory there is no survival."  
_- Sir Winston Churchill_

Skinner felt the need to interject with the facts. "Didn't Sherlock Holmes _die _years ago? In Sweden or something?"

"Switzerland, my good sir, Switzerland," Mycroft corrected. "Only I, Albert and a few others are aware that he did not, in fact, plunge to his death at Reichenbach, as Dr. Watson has led the public to believe." Then, as if as an afterthought, "He has not been informed."

Tom looked thoughtful, but cautious. "How did you find us?"

"I had just arrived in London," Mycroft told them, "And entered my room in the club when a small, rather ingenious black cat came in with a note." He produced it from his pocket. Tom took it; he recognised Nikola's neat script. _So that's where Mistoffelees went to when we went to see Zalma's body, _he thought.

"What do you want us to do with him?" Skinner asked, eyeing the big man. "He's too far away to be fighting."

"Mycroft wants us to make sure Albert gets his rightful title as King," Damon piped up from his spot on the cot. He made a move as if to get up, but then one of the doctors threw him a dirty glare and he sat back down again. "They threatened to make me sleep if I got up," he muttered as an explanation. "What do you say?" He looked up at Tom.

Tom crossed his arms over his chest, thinking. At length, he said, "I don't want him to join the fighting. The survivor of the Royal Family should live to take the throne. Mr. Holmes, you and your brother keep him safe in Sussex. We'll get rid of Dante; when everything's settled, he'll be made king."

As if sensing the caution and scepticism that laced Tom's voice, Mycroft said, "I assure you, sir, that Albert has been aptly trained for his future role. Sherlock and I took pains to ensure that he will not grow up to become Dante."

"I don't doubt that," Tom smiled. "But I guess even the best training can go awry. With great power comes great responsibility."

Mycroft nodded; he could understand where this young man was coming from. They had talked about this and the Holmes brothers had agreed that, until Albert was old enough, he would have a regent. "Then I propose that Albert have a regent appointed until you feel he is older and wise enough to become a ruler."

"The law states — well, stated, anyway — that he's supposed to have a regent until he's eighteen," Damon pointed out. "Like Queen Victoria, except she never needed it. I don't think Dante eradicated that when he and the lawyers revised the justice system."

"We'll stick to the law." Tom crossed his arms over his chest. "Albert is only fourteen, he still has a few years before he can ascend to the throne. I don't think this" — he gestured at things in general, referring to the fight — "will last four years. Four weeks, maybe four months, but not four years. And if it does..." He straightened, standing to his full height, something he did more often now. "Mr. Holmes, you and your brother are charged with taking care of him by the Underground resistance movement."

"Consider it done, Duke," Mycroft nodded. "Rest assured Sherlock and I will keep Albert safe from the Second Reich."

"Thanks."

Mycroft inclined his head, and with a half-bow, left the tent. Tom looked down at his second-in-command. "You okay?"

"I'll be fine." He waved it off, and lowered his tone, as if they were in on a conspiracy. "I'm just here to make it look like I'm listening to doctor's orders. As soon as they look away I'm outta here." Skinner and Tom laughed. His leg may be hurt, but his wit sure wasn't. "One of the Kwaden got lucky. It's not deep; I'll be back in shape tomorrow. You're not going to get rid of me so easily." He grinned.

* * *

Damon strode purposefully towards the guard post. As he had predicted, the minute the doctors had looked away he had snuck out and made a run for it. His leg hurt, but he didn't care; it was just a minor wound, not as bad as some of the others they had seen. He justified his case by saying that the bed would be open to someone else who needed it more than him, when the doctors found him. Now, though, he was on his way to look for Tom and Skinner. Some of the men had directed him towards the camp, on the forefront of the perimeter. He was again armed; one of the kids had run back to the tent to get his guns. 

This was one of the many camps they had set up along the riverbank after they had secured the south of the Thames. It was near the hospital tent, and he took special care to be as inconspicuous as possible, just in case one of the doctors happened to look out and see him. The main area of the camp — that is, the fort-like part of it, where the guns were fired — was fortified with unused crates and junk. It kept the bullets out and the others safe.

He ducked underneath some men carrying an injured comrade off, joining Tom and Skinner by the edge. The latter was poking at his dinner, while Tom was strumming something on a broken guitar. He'd heard that tune before, somewhere a long time ago. The words came to his mind unbidden: _What so proudly we hail'd at the twilight's last gleaming? Whose broad stripes and bright stars, thro' the perilous fight, O'er the ramparts we watch'd, were so gallantly streaming? _(#1)

"Shouldn't you be in bed?" Tom asked, slowing his playing. "How's your leg?"

"I told you I'd be fine." He noted the Winchester lying next to Tom on the ground. It was loaded, and while they weren't expecting any attack, it never hurt to be prepared. "Has there been any news from our men on the other side?" He inclined his head towards the other bank of the river, which they could see clearly in the moonlight. Tom shook his head; there had been no word, although Blake had assured him that their men were capable of defending themselves. The reassuring thing was that there not been any explosions, so it was likely Somerset House was still in one piece.

"Blake came by earlier," Skinner informed him. "He said they're trying to make contact with the other side by radio, see how they're doing. Nemo's men are bringing some equipment over from the Nautilus to help the radio people."

Damon nodded and peered over his shoulder. The hospital tent was busy as ever. It would be some time yet before his disappearance was noticed. He turned around and was about to say something when the gunshots and screaming started.

Tom dropped his bowl and, grabbing his Winchester, ran to the front. The men already there were had taken aim and were shooting at the occupants of the small boat that had landed on their side. It was Second Reich. Someone was screaming something, but he couldn't understand, not over the boom of the muskets as they discharged. Blake was quick to arrive on the scene; a minute or so more of shooting, and then his men were down by the water, wrestling the intruders to the ground and disarming them with quick efficiency.

He lowered his gun, shaking his shaggy blond locks out of his face. He thought he could relax when the screaming started again and his name was called. He spun to his left to locate Jimmy. The boy was crouching by a figure, who lay prostrate on the ground...Owen. "Mr. Sawyer! _Help!_"

He pushed past the people who were flocking to the scene of the fight. Blake's men were taking prisoners; he would deal with them later. This was much more pressing. He nearly dropping his gun as he slipped down the slight slope that led to the water, but he managed to get to the bottom unhurt. Damon and Skinner followed close behind, attracted by Owen's voice.

"Owen, what happened!" He cradled Owens's dirty head. There was blood all over his front and it was spreading fast. He was barely conscious, fading in and out. Jimmy was hysterical, but he calmed down enough as the others reached them to tell his tale.

"Me and O-Owen, we was down by the river — Blake s-said we're low on bullets, so we figured — since t-there'd be shooting earlier, there'd be shells — we was picking them up w-when the boat — we were shouting at the guys — t-then the shooting, an' then we was goin' to get back b-behind the lines — then Owen, he, he fell, an' t-then there was b-blood all over — please, you gotta help him!" He dissolved into a sputtering wreck from there on, crying and begging Tom to help him, between wailing what sounded like a prayer.

_It's no good, _Tom thought with a sinking heart as he pulled away the dirty rag that Owen called a shirt. _He's been shot. _His heart plummeted to meet his spleen when he saw the gaping hole in his chest. He was aware Damon next to him and yelling for a doctor, of the people who were crowding around them, and of Skinner holding Jimmy and trying to calm him down, with little success. His focus was on Owen as the child opened his eyes. "Stay with me, Owen. Don't fall asleep; you have to stay with me." _Please, don't let him die. He's too young...he still has his whole life ahead of him, please don't let him die. _

"Mr. S-Sawyer," he wheezed. He took Tom's hand and the cold and wet feeling of a handful of bullet shells greeted his open palm. "Hope...this helps." He passed out.

"Owen! Don't scare me! Owen! Wake up, wake up!" Tom shook him roughly. "No! I won't let you die! _Owen!_"

Jimmy started wailing again, clinging to Skinner. The invisible man looked shaken to the core and Damon stopped yelling. Tom didn't care. Owen was dead. He_ knew _there would be casualties, but Owen...was opening his eyes?

"He's alive! He's alive!" The doctors came running, bringing an old gurney with them. "He's alive!" He had to relinquish Owen to them as they loaded him onto a gurney and carted him off.

"Is he going to survive?" Skinner asked quietly as Tom stood up. He came to stand next to his friend after handing Jimmy to Mina. They would take care of him for now.

"He'll live." _He'll live. _He had probably never been more relieved to be able to hear those two magic words. Two very important words that he wished he could have been able to say on at least two more occasions, but he banished the thoughts from his mind. He had a feeling Huck and Allan would have gladly have traded in their turns so that Owen could go on to see another day.

"Sawyer!" Blake scrambled down the gravel. "Sawyer!" He ran to meet them. "We have hostages...you won't believe who we got." His raised brow prompted Blake to call forward two of his men, who held the prisoner between them. He wasn't fighting the former constables; he seemed almost resigned to his fate.

"Blimey," Skinner whispered. "It's _Chauvelin._"

(#1) Those lines are from The Star-Spangled Banner, the American national anthem. It was written on the morning of 14 September 1814 by Francis Scott Key, after he saw the American flag still flying over Fort McHenry, which had been shelled the night before. It was originally titled _Defense of Fort M'Henry_.


	28. Chapter 27

**Revolution  
****Chapter 27**

"Remember, remember, the fifth of November, the gunpowder treason and plot. I know of no reason why the gunpowder treason should ever be forgot."  
_- Guy Fawkes_

Chauvelin stared defiantly at his captors. The sheer humiliation of being captured stung. His men were dead, he was unarmed and at the mercy of the Underground. What would they do to him? He was Second Reich, they were Underground; no doubt there was be some sort of revenge. Dante's men, the Kwaden especially, had been made to believe that capture by the Underground meant torture, degradation and ultimately death, but somehow Chauvelin doubted that. The Black Duke and his allies seemed honorable enough.

And the boy. Good lord, how had they shot the boy?

The guards had dragged him over to where everyone was gathered. The Black Duke stared at him, along with his invisible and dark-haired friend. There were gasps and worried looks all around him, but he ignored them. The Black Duke, so near him for the second time around, but this time he was at his mercy. Pathetic, Dante and Reed would say. Utterly pathetic.

Tom was about to say something, when Jimmy rushed out from nowhere and kicked Chauvelin between the legs. Damon and Skinner dragged him back as he doubled over. "You killed me best mate! Murderer! _Murderer!" _

"Jimmy!" Skinner struggled to keep him away. "He's not dead, Owen'll live!"

"Murderer!" Jimmy sobbed, collapsing against Skinner's coat. He clung to him. "Murderer..."

Skinner was left in the awkward position of comforting Jimmy as Tom issued his orders, his jaw clenched. "Lock him up. I'll deal with him later."

He swept off to the hospital tent. Chauvelin looked up just in time to see Damon shoot him a dagger-like glare.

_Murderer. Is this what I have become?_

_

* * *

_

"You want to _what?" _Damon exploded. He drew his gun again, fully intending to blow Chauvelin's brains all over the inside of the tent, but Tom stopped him.

"I can help you," Chauvelin repeated, his soft French accent very much out of place in a tent. "I know a great many things...where Dante and Reed are — how to get past the guards and defenses — everything."

Tom regarded him in the lamplight. They were burning the gasoline lamp at half-down in order to save on fuel. The result was a low glow and it made him look much older than he really was. He considered the Frenchman for a moment or two, almost as if he was unsure of what to make of him.

There was something about him that suggested Chauvelin had changed sides. He was not entirely sure what it was — it definitely wasn't in his voice, because it was still the same. He had no idea why, but he had a feeling that they could trust Chauvelin, at least to some extent. Over the years he had learned how to read people; he trusted his instincts. Mostly.

"Where are Dante and Reed?" he asked.

Damon growled loudly, sounding very much like an angry wolf, but he kept silent.

"The Tower," Dante's young protégé answered. "Emergency plans that were drawn up years ago stated that Dante and Reed would be moved to the Tower of London if there was a war of any sort. They'll be there."

"Along with the Kwaden and a whole lot of troops!" Damon interjected. "Don't believe him, Tom, he's just trying to lead us into a trap."

"Do you think I would waste my men like that just for a trap?" he shot back. "Do you think I would have shot a child _for a trap_?"

Tom sent Skinner and Damon outside, glaring the latter down until he turned and stalked out. He and Chauvelin looked at each other as the American crossed his arms over his chest.

"Let's get something straight," he said shortly. "I don't trust you."

"Understandable."

"Call me crazy, but," Tom ran a hand through his hair, "I'm willing to give this a shot."

"Thank you."

"You'll be constantly under armed guard. If you try anything funny, my men will be ordered to shoot to kill. Clear?"

"Crystal."

"And if I find out you're lying to us —"

"— may God have mercy on my soul."

Tom supposed that was a little extreme, but that more or less summed up everything. He nodded and left the tent, letting the guards step in to keep guard over Chauvelin.

"Well?" Damon demanded, marching up to him. He wasn't as livid as he had been before, but his body language was still aggressive. Skinner looked a little worried as he tagged along. Blake had joined the two and looked pensive, especially with his arms crossed over his chest.

"He's on our side. Blake, I want you to get the men ready for an all-out assault," Tom said crisply. His strides were long and purposeful as he headed for the medical tent to inform the doctors. "We move at night, the day after tomorrow. We'll need a security detail for Chauvelin, so make sure they're armed."

Blake was off in a flash. "Aye-aye, sir."

"Tom, you can't be serious," Damon was saying. "He's gonna lead us straight into a trap!"

He wasn't heard; mentally, Tom was going over all the things they would need to do before they could set off. "Skinner, go find Mina and tell her to spread the word among her assassin friends. I want to see her and the rest of the generals in the control tent in ten minutes." Skinner slipped away from the group, blending into the crowds to seek out the vampiress.

The activity around camp increased. Whether or not it was because of Blake and Skinner having completed their tasks, Tom was not sure. He was behind the medical tent when Damon finally lost it. "Thomas Sawyer! Are you listening to me?"

He grabbed his sleeve, causing him to stop. Actually, he had been caught up in his thoughts, but Damon pressed on. "You gotta listen to me, Tom, Chauvelin's up to no good. It's a trap and we're going to be massacred the minute we enter Tower grounds. If," he added darkly, "we even make it that far!"

"Damon." Tom was deadly serious. He was the leader of the worldwide Underground movement, and he was in control. It was the other side of him that rarely ever came out. When it did, Tom Sawyer became a formidable force, one that was not to be reckoned with unless you were extremely foolish or extremely brave. "You've got to trust me on this. Yeah, it's a huge risk. Don't ask me why I trust him, because I don't know, but I do, and I think I'm right on this."

"Tom —"

"Hear me out," Tom cut him off. "It's a big leap of faith, but you gotta trust me, Damon." Of all the people's trust he needed now, it was Damon's. "I don't fully trust him either, that's why Blake and his men will be guarding him at all times. But he's changed sides, Damon, he's with us now. It may be because of Owen, or Jimmy, or all the homeless kids and the suffering he's seen since he got here, or it maybe he was gonna join us all along. I don't know why, but I'm damn sure he has."

"What if you're wrong?" Damon said softly.

Tom countered that easily enough. "What if I'm right? What would happen if we _don't _trust him, if we take everything he says as a lie? We stand a greater chance of losing, that's what. I don't want to lose. I don't want everything to go back to the way it was under Dante." He took the other man by the shoulders. "Will you trust me, Damon? Will you help me?"

There was such earnestness and honesty in his voice only a deaf man could miss it. The need to live, to win, was all too clear in Tom's blue eyes. Damon supposed he didn't have much of a choice. He sighed. "I'll let the kids know."

* * *

They had been in meeting for almost three hours, discussing battle plans and troop movement. Chauvelin was brought in to mark out guard posts and to tell them everything he knew. It was plenty of useful information that was duly noted and used. Extensive knowledge of London's streets and back alleys, courtesy of Skinner and Jimmy, came in handy. It was well after midnight when they were able to come up with a workable, viable assault plan. It involved all the Underground and its allies, which in itself was a dangerous maneuver. Should they fail, backup would not come. In fact, there would be no backup at all. The gravity of the situation was not lost on anyone.

Many of those present were bleary-eyed by the end, but all of them had a vague sense of satisfaction as they reviewed their strategy one last time.

"Okay. Let's go through this one more time." Tom stretched like a cat. "Tomorrow, starting from six o'clock, the garrisons will start going to their respective places. No mass movement so the Second Reich won't notice. Small groups by the hour. By midnight everyone should be in place. One group beneath Westminster Bridge and two below Waterloo Bridge. When Big Ben strikes one o'clock, all the boats will leave shore."

He tapped the pins that had been stuck on the map. "Alpha group will land at Big Ben. Beta will land on Victoria Embankment, next to Cleopatra's Needle (#1). Gamma will also come ashore on Victoria Embankment, but they'll be in front of Somerset House. They will make contact with our men and bring weapons and medicine."

"Beta will be made up primarily of the assassins," Mina said coolly. "Redmayne (#2) has agreed to lead the team. They will cover Gamma." When questioning glances were thrown her way, she shrugged lightly. "I shall be joining Agent Sawyer."

Nemo took over the narration. "Meanwhile, the Nautilus would have arrived at Customs House. The men who will join us are Delta team."

"Which I will lead, along with Captain Nemo," Damon chipped in. "We'll fight our way through this whole stretch. This will draw the Kwaden and any troops out of Tower grounds. While we're doing that, Tom and the others enter the Tower." He looked at Tom, who caught the cue.

"Me, Skinner, Mina and the assassins, Blake's detail and Chauvelin will use a few of the Nautilus' lifeboats to enter the Tower by Traitor's Gate. We'll get it open when Chauvelin pretends he managed to 'escape in the chaos'." He made quotation signs with his fingers. "With any luck, Dante will be dead by morning." There were no questions. All of them looked at each other in silent agreement.

The final showdown was about to begin.

* * *

(#1) Cleopatra's Needle was presented to the UK in 1819 by the Egyptian viceroy of the time in commemoration of the victories of Horatio Nelson and Ralph Abercromby. The government welcomed the gesture, but it did not transport it back to London. In 1877, Sir William James Erasmus Wilson sponsored its transportation to London at a cost of ten thousand pounds. After a rather interesting and long adventure, it finally made its way to London, where it was erected on Victoria Embankment in August 1879. It is one of three needles; the other two are in Paris' Place de la Concorde and New York's Central Park.

(#2) Gaspard Redmayne is a forger and assassin, villain of a story called _Brought to Justice_ (publication date unknown), which was the second detective story starring Gideon Barr. He was created by Harry Blyth.


	29. Chapter 28

**Revolution  
****Chapter 28**

"A day may come when the courage of men fails, when we forsake our friends and break all bonds of fellowship, but it is not this day!"  
_- Aragorn, Lord of the Rings: Return of the King  
_

The sun was just setting as Blake slipped underneath Waterloo Bridge. They had been able to link parts of the sewage system to the river before, and this served as their passageway. There were entrances all over this side of the Thames; he and the others had made their way through the network.

"Evenin', guv'nor," one of his men greeted with a bored smile. "Not a peep from the oth'r side, sir, not even a volley to remind us that they're there."

"Keep at it, Smith," Blake offered, patting the other man on the back. "We still have a ways to go." The men who had arrived earlier were sorting through boats and weapons that they had brought with them. "Still a ways to go."

"Aye, and there's a war to be fought," Smith granted as Blake helped him pull a boat closer to the water. "Never thought I'd be waitin' in the sewers for my turn to get at 'em."

Blake could only offer a small smile as he piled a pair of oars into the boat. "Neither did I, Smith — but I never thought I'd be fighting this war." Smith gave no answer as he moved off to help others. There would be more supplies coming in later, and they had to make sure they were ready to receive them. This was their time, and Blake would make sure his team would be able to render assistance to their allies.

* * *

It felt good to be back on the Nautilus again. Tom was in the bridge with Nemo and some of his men, going over their route down the river. It wasn't very far, but it was essential that they not be caught along the way. There was no obvious difference to being on land, but the gentle hum of the ship's mighty engines and the movement of the men aboard reminded him of the old days when he was still a Secret Agent.

He liked it here, even though he was standing on the cargo bay, near the giant doors that would open soon. The ship was not yet in motion, but he knew it was almost time for the others to move. The other men in the hold were quiet, but there was a sort of anticipation thick in the air, like jam on toast. His faithful companion was beside him, a floating rifle.

Skinner was silent for once as he nervously fingered the gun. They had found a spare rifle for him, and this was it; it was an old service weapon, but it worked spectacularly.

Beside him, Mina lounged casually against a crate. Death was her forte and it showed; she was perhaps the most relaxed in the hold. She had not changed so much in ten years.

Jekyll was with the other teams. The last Tom had seen of him, before they had boarded the Nautilus, he had been clad in his pants and a loose white shirt that had seen better days. He had been playing with a vial of formula.

Nemo was above decks. He would join them later. Damon had been with him but he had come done before to speak to some of the men. Now he returned to wait with the ex-League members.

Tom's watch clicked to one o'clock. He held his breath; would the plan work?

The Nautilus was cruising now. He could feel it in his bones, in the gentle hum of the engines as they kicked into gear. He tensed up, ready for combat. Nemo came into the hold, still regal and with some more of his men.

"The assault has begun," he said simply. "We are moving towards Customs House."

Chauvelin watched this with a sulky look. They were guarding him in a way; Mina was more than enough to keep him under control. "You'll want to watch out for any boats on the water. There may be a few patrols."

Nemo nodded. No doubt he already knew of the patrols and had taken the necessary precautions to avoid them.

"It's about bloody time this war got started," Skinner muttered from his place.

* * *

As expected, the fighting was fierce. Blake watched as some of his friends in the police force were gunned down by Second Reich or Underground. He felt saddened that he had to see good men go, but it cheered him slightly to know that some of them changed sides in the fighting. He watched as a constable wearing a Second Reich uniform turned on his companions, knocking them out with the help of a friend from the Yard.

He was pushed along by the surge. He fired at some oncoming Second Reich. He shot to kill.

He did not realize it, but the battlefield was spreading and there were more people joining the fighting. The group fought their way to Somerset House, where someone opened the door for them.

"In! Inside now!" he yelled, ducking into the cover of the doorway. It was riddled with bullets as his men escaped to the relative safety of the building. He took a few shots at the Second Reich before he felt someone grip him by the back of his collar and pull him in as the door was slammed shut.

The door was quickly barred by some of the original men who had come here. The doctors were already fanning out to help the injured. He looked out for his friend, anxious to know whether he had made it or if Arsène had been captured. He cornered the nearest person and asked him where Arsène Lupin was. The man said that no Arsène had joined them. Blake's heart sank but he knew this was no time for grief. If Arsène was dead, then there would be more than enough Second Reich to follow him.

There was a commotion from upstairs. One of the men ran down, his head in a bandage. "Look! Look outside! The sky! Look at the sky!"

Blake ran to a side window facing the window. He was joined by other excited people and he craned his neck to peer at the sky. At first he didn't see anything, then a broad streak of red flew in a graceful arc through the sky. His eyes followed it, and then he jerked backwards when it landed and exploded in the middle of scattering Second Reich soldiers.

Firecrackers. Who in the world used firecrackers in war?

He knew the answer. Blake grinned and looked towards Cleopatra's Needle. Between the explosions' flashes, he could see a thin figure gallivanting about the top of the needle, stepping on the sloped top with the surefootedness of a goat on a mountain. He recognized that figure anywhere and he laughed out loud when the figure whipped off his hat and bowed jauntily to the awestruck soldiers below him. Arsène's sense of humor never let up.

Arsène had kept his lair a secret, even from his Underground friends. The Needle had been his base for two years now; he had discovered its underground secrets while snooping around for information on the black marketers. (#1) He had been keeping it as a secret getaway in case he needed it, and he had, when he had lowered the bridge to stop the advancement of the Second Reich. Somerset House had been surrounded and there had been no way of getting in, no matter how crafty or cunning he could be. So he had retired to his place in the Needle, where he had weapons, some food and some treasure hoarded. The firecrackers had been leftovers from Queen Victoria's Diamond Jubilee and he had kept them out of whim. He had never thought they would become so useful in such a situation.

He saw the faces crowding at the windows of Somerset House, and he whipped off his hat to bow at them, in a most theatrical gesture.

* * *

As the fighting took place further down the river, the Nautilus rose silently out of the water, slicing through it with the barest of sounds.

It came close to the bank. Quietly the men filed out, taking pains to be undetectable. Mina glared at Chauvelin as he followed behind Skinner and Tom. They were pulling out the large lifeboats they had secreted in the hold. The first of the boats slipped into the water and more followed.

Tom made a motion, and a section of the men broke off from the others. They climbed into the boats and lit lamps, but kept the light low. Tom trailed behind.

None of them were under any illusion that there would be no deaths. They also knew this could possibly be the last time they saw each other alive. After the war was over, if they were still alive, then they would bury friends and comrades, none of who would be forgotten.

They didn't exchange words. They just nodded to each other and then Tom was on the first boat, pushing off with an oar.

High above them, a firecracker erupted in a spectacular explosion of sparks.

* * *

(#1) In _The Hollow Needle, _one of the Lupin stories, the Hollow Needle is a gigantic rock formation off the Normandy Coast, near Ettretat. Maurice Leblac proposes that it is hollow and used to house the secret treasures of the Kings of France. Some creative license has been exercised in this regard. 


End file.
